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THE  DOCTOR’S  DAUGHTER.  Page  9. 


THE 


DOCTOR’S  DAUGHTER. 


BY 


SOPHIE  MAY, 

AUTHOR  OF  “ LITTLE  PRUDY  STORIES,”  “ DOTTY  DIMPLE 
STORIES,”  ETC. 


BOSTON-. 

LEE  AND  SHEPAED,  PUBLISHERS. 
NEW  YORK: 

LEE,  SHEPARD  AND  DILLINGHAM. 

1872. 


Entered,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  3^ear  1871, 
By  lee  and  SHEPARD, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Electrotyped  at  the  Boston  Stereotype  Foundry, 
No.  19  Spring  Lane. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  Beginning  of  the  End 9 

CHAPTER  II. 

Quinnebasset  Girls 19 

CHAPTER  III. 

Pauline  and  Keller 27 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Keller  and  Marian.  34 

CHAPTER  V. 

A Great  Surprise 43 

CHAPTER  VI. 

‘‘The  Valley  of  Wormwood.” 49 

CHAPTER  VII. 

Brownie  Snow 56 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

A Dream  that  was  all  a Dream 61 

(5) 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Afterthoughts 70 

CHAPTER  X. 

Thankful’s  Thirds 77 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Cuba  prevails 84 

CHAPTER  XII. 

Miss  O’Neil  expresses  her  Mind.  ...» 93 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

The  Romaunt  of  the  Rose 101 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  Mother- want 110 

CHAPTER  XV. 

Dull  Days 119 

• 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

A New  Resolve 126 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

Brightening  the  House 131 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


A Mystery  in  the  Attic, 


138 


CONTENTS. 


7 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Bearding  the  Lion 146 

CHAPTER  XX. 

A Spring  Freshet 158 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

Upper  Windows 166 

CHAPTER  XXII* 

No  Head 176 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Cobwebs.  . 186 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Changes 193 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

The  Symposium 202 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

The  First  Lover 216 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

The  Potato  Pan 223 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

“ Love-shaked.” 229 


8 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

“Worse  than  none.” ‘ 240 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

Aunt  Hinsdale  puzzled 252 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Up  Country 259 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Unjust  Suspicions 269 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Platonic  Love 280 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Gods  and  Half-gods 291 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

A Queer  Little  Story 305 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Queer  Little  Story  continued , 315 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

The  End 327 


THE 


DOCTOR’S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END. 


“ My  child  is  yet  a stranger  in  the  world. 

She  hath  not  seen  the  change  of  fourteen  years.” 

Shakespeare. 


t)ARIAN!” 

No  answer. 

The  sun  had  refused  himself  to  everybody 
for  the  day,  and  persisted  in  being  “not  at  home,” 
till  at  the  very  last  moment  he  j^eeped  out,  with  a re- 
lenting smik,  which  might  pass  for  a good  night  and  a 
blessins:. 


A certain  face,  at  a west  chamber  window,  would 
not  receive  the  tardy  benediction,  but  its  eyes,  covered 
with  a little  plump  hand,  looked  straight  down  into  the 
bottomless  gulf  of  an  old  portfolio. 

“Plenty  here,  but  nothing  finished.  ‘The  Woman 
in  the  Moon.’  Lovely,  as  far  as  she  goes.  ‘ Ode  to  a 
Dying  Dove.’  Something  the  matter  with  its  feet. 
Wish  I could  send  an  article  to  the  ‘ Aurora.’  As 

9 


10 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


Judith  says,  it  would  be  so  exciting  to  hear  it  read 
before  a house  full  of  people,  not  one  of  them  dreaming 
’twas  you! 

“Here  are  some  old  compositions.  ‘Improvement 
of  Time.’  I wrote  that  for  Miss  Lightbody.  ’Twas 
like  drawing  a tooth.” 

“ Marian ! ” 

“ ‘ The  Four  Seasons.’  So  stale  ! Call  ’em  Jive,^  for 
variety.” 

“Mary  Anne!^^ 

“ Deaf,  dear ! How  I hate  my  name,  with  a little 
indefinite  article  tucked  on  to  the  end  of  it!  Yes, 
Pauline,”  — going  to  the  head  of  the  stairs;  “what 
do  you  want  ? ” 

“ Don’t  strain  your  eyes,  child.” 

“ O,  is  that  all  ? I’m  not  reading,  Pauline.  I’ll  be 
down  presently.” 

The  little  girl  tripped  back  to  her  room,  wafting  the 
spicy  odor  of  a late  clove  pink,  which  nodded  at  the 
neck  of  her  dress.  But  her  train  of  thought  had 
been  disturbed,  and,  like  a butterfiy  shaken  from  one 
flower,  she  flew  to  another. 

“ There’s  the  blank  book  mamma  gave  me.  I must 
begin  it  this  very  night,”  said  she,  dropping  the  mus- 
lin curtain,  and  lighting  her  lamp,  though  the  room 
was  flooded  with  soft  twilight. 

“‘You  will  scarcely  use  the  book,  child,’  she  says. 
What  a piece  of  fickleness  she  takes  me  to  be ! But, 
mother  dearest,  you  don’t  know  your  own  child.  I’m 
going  to  write  a sort  of  history  of  my  life,  and  keep  it 
under  lock  arid  key.  I never  will  consent  to  have  a 
word  of  it  published  while  I live;  but.perhaj^s  it  will 


THE  beginning  OF  THE  END, 


11 


be  revised  ^nd  corrected  after  I’m  gone.  At  any 
rate,  it  will  be  a great  comfort  to  my  friends.” 

Marian’s  willowy  figure  bent  forward  over  the  book 
in  her  lap,  and  the  lamp,  with  a tipsy  shade  like  a 
slouched  hat,  shone  down  on  a blank  book  with 
the  name,  “ Marian  Prescott,”  and  below  it  the  line, 
“Think  that  To-day  shall  never  dawn  again.” 

“ Those  words  are  sort  of  awful,  I declare.  Only 
things  seem  different  coming  from  mother — sweet  and 
tender,  somehow,  like  her  voice.  Just  see  how  lightly 
she  bears  on,  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  hurting  the 
paper’s  feelings ! 

Now,  I’m  going  to  give  my  journal  a name. 

Miss  Tottenham, 

There,  it  is  written.  Why  didn’t  I say  Madame 
Looking-glass  ? 

SeT>t,  3.  I am  a girl  of  thirteen.  I have  a large 
nose  — 

I declare,  I didn’t  think  it  would  be  so  hard  to  know 
what  to  say.  What’s  the  use  to  describe  myself? 

My  father  is  superintendent  of  the  Sabbath  school, 
and  very  much  respected  in  this  village.  He  is  also  a 
physician.  His  nose  is  rather  sharp ; but  no  one  need 
say  mother  holds  it  to  the  grindstone  ; for  she  is  sweet- 
ness itself.  She  has  not  been  well  for  a long  while. 
My  sister  Pauline  is  five  years  older  than  I.  She  has 
a meek  look  round  the  mouth.  People  say  her  face  is 
like  a Madonna. 

(I  don’t  see  how  they  know;  there  are  so  many 
Madonnas.) 


12 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


She  has  too  low  a forehead. 

(There,  I don’t  want  to  go  on  and  say  she’s  not  intel- 
lectual. Still,  when  you  speak  of  a person’s  having  a 
low  forehead,  what  can  you  expect  ?) 

I have  an  older  brother,  Keller,  — he  means  well, 
but  is  very  rattle-brained,  — between  Pauline  and  me. 
Then  a child  of  four ; his  name  is  Benjie. 

(The  tea  bell.  Pauline,  you  were  the  means  of  that 
blot!  Anybody’d  think  I was  deaf  by  the  way  she 
rings.) 

And  Marian  hurried  down  stairs,  leaving  her  pretty 
chamber  to  hold  a sort  of  “witches’  Sabbath,”  — hair- 
brush and  Bible  turning  their  backs  on  one  another, 
red  apple  and  amber  globe  of  soap  lying  cheek  to 
cheek,  flowers  with  wet  stems  trailing  over  an  open 
volume  of  poetry,  and  the  flaring  lamp  crying,  mutely, 
“ Put  me  out,  put  me  out,  before  I crack  my  chimney.” 

“My  patience,  if  here  isn’t  Miss  O’Neill”  thought 
Marian,  her  quick  feet  slackening  from  the  time  of  a 
waltzing  tune  to  the  slowest  Old  Hundred. 

“ How  do  you  do,  Miriam  ? ” 

“ Nicely,  thank  you ; but  my  name  isn’t  ‘ Miriam,’  ” 
returned  the  little  girl,  with  an  involuntary  tilt  of  the 
chin. 

“What  has  the  cross  old  thing  got  against  me 
now  ? ” thought  she,  seating  herself  at  table  oppo- 
site the  slender-witted  spinster,  and  gazing  rather  defi- 
antly at  her  sallow-white  cap,  with  trembling  bows  .of 
heart-broken  lilac. 

There  was  an  acidity  about  Miss  O’Neil,  as  if  she  had 
been  well  steeped  in  the  vinegar  of  crushed  hopes ; al- 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END. 


13 


beit  she  could  sometimes  flatter  so  sweetly  that  you 
would  think  she  had  just  drawn  herself,  all  sticky  and 
dripping,  out  of  a pot  of  honey. 

That  she  and  Marian  were  natural  enemies  might 
be  seen  at  a glance.  Very  young  people  could  hardly 
be  expected  to  have  much  toleration  for  such  a sin- 
gular person  as  Miss  O’Neil.  In  manners  a lady,  in 
mind  a child,  in  “ Irish  wit  ” a second  Mrs.  Partington, 
she  was  a bugbear  to  the  Quinnebasset  children,  who 
were  required  to  treat  her  with  respect,  though  they 
considered  her  very  little  removed  from  a fool. 

She  knew  how  to  eat  an  egg ; was  holding  one  now 
in  her  napkin  with  infinite  grace,  little  end  up,  and 
dipping  out  its  contents  with  a tea-spoon.  She  was 
fond  of  eggs,  and  often  asked  for  them  when  she 
dropped  in  anywhere  to  drink  a social  tea.  And  why 
shouldn’t  she  ask  for  what  she  wanted?  Wasn’t  she  a 
lineal  descendant  of  the  O’Neils  of  Ireland,  who  might 
have  sat  on  a throne,  but  for  some  reason  didn’t? 
Wasn’t  she  the  last  fruit  on  the  ancestral  tree,  the 
others  of  her  family  having  dropped  off  early,  like  sum- 
mer windfalls'?  And  now  wasn’t  it  the  duty  of  the 
Quinnebasset  people  to  take  care  of  her  ? 

Especially  as  she  had  once  attended  boarding-school, 
and  after  that  had  lost  her  property,  and  kept  a millin- 
er’s shop  in  Machias,  and  of  late  an  A B C school  at 
Quinnebasset. 

To  say  nothing  of  her  urgent  claim  to  everybody’s 
respect  on  account  of  always  wearing  mitts  when  she 
went  visiting. 

“Miriam,”  said  Miss  O’Neil,  “they  say,  if  there’s 
any  mischief,  you  are  always  in  front  of  the  rear.  But 


14 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


when  you  went  to  my  school,  you  used  to  learn  be- 
havior.” 

‘‘What’s  coming  now?”  thought  Marian,  with  a 
side  glance  at  her  father,  who  appeared  to  be  only  half 
listening. 

“But  you’ve  forgotten  all  the  behavior  you  ever 
knew.  I’ve  heard  with  my  own  lips  how  you’ve  been 
conducting,  Miriam  Linscott.  When  I lived  at  Ma- 
chias,  the  young  ladies  that  went  to  the  Select  School 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  breaking  the  laws  of 
the  Swedes  and  Persians  as  associating  with  boys.” 
“Nonsense!”  said  Dr.  Prescott;  “what  have  the 
boys  done,  that  they  can’t  be  spoken  to  ? ” 

“ I shouldn’t  think  that  of  you,  Dr.  Linscott,  a man 
that  sends' his  daughter  to  the  Female  Academy,”  ex- 
claimed Miss  O’Neil,  flourishing,  her  tea-spoon. 

“ I don’t  send  her ; it’s  her  mother’s  work.  I prefer 
a mixed  school,  as  all  sensible  people  must,”  returned 
the  doctor,  with  a mischievous  smile. 

“iN-deed!”  ejaculated  Miss  O’Neil,  smoothing  down 
her  apron  with  both  hands,  as  if  she  were  mesmerizing 
herself — a habit  of  hers  when  highly  excited.  “In- 
deed, Dr.  Linscott ! What  would  they  have  thought 
of  you  at  Machias,  if  you’d  s]3oken  so  there  ? ” 

The  doctor  felt  no  interest  whatever  in  his  standing 
.with  a dead  and  gone  generation,  and  passed  his  tea- 
cup to  his  daughter  Pauline  without  answering. 

“If  you  knew,  sir,  how  your  little  Miriam  has 
been  conducting,  you  wouldn’t  speak  so  lightly  of 
boys,”  continued  the  lady,  with  an  angry  quaver  of 
voice.  “ She  has  been  — riding  — a — calf!  ” 

Dr,  Prescott  set  down  his  tea-cup  suddenly.  A 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END. 


15 


burning  flush  spread  over  Marian’s  face  and  neck,  so 
deep  that  the  clove-pink  was  lost  in  it. 

« Why,  Marian ! ” said  Pauline,  with  motherly  solici- 
tude ; “ this  cannot  be  true.” 

“ Answer  your  sister,”  said  Dr.  Prescott,  sternly. 

‘‘Yes,  Miriam,  tell  your  father  just  how  you’ve 
been  conducting,  and  see  then  what  he  thinks  about 
boys.” 

“It  hasn’t  the  least  thing  to  do  with  boys.  Miss 
O’Neil,”  said  Marian,  taking  out  her  handkerchief  in 
great  agitation ; “ and  so  anybody  would  know,  except 
peo]Dle  that  mix  up  things  in  their  heads ! Why,  fa- 
ther ! why,  Pauline ! to  think  you  should  listen  to  such 
a story  for  a minute ! Do  you  suppose  I’m  a Hotten- 
tot ? Why,  I wouldn’t  ride  a calf  if  you’d  give  me  a 
gold  saddle!  So  unladylike!  Just  think!” 

“Then  what  are  you  blushing  for!”  said  Keller, 
bluntly.  “You  didn’t  ride  him;  but  I’ll  warrant  I 
know  who  did ! ” 

“ Why,  where  were  you  ? Did  you  look  ? Did  you 
see?”  exclaimed  Marian,  eagerly;  then  covered  her 
face  in  confusion  at  the  laugh  which  followed. 

“There!  what  did  I tell  you?”  said  Miss  O’Neil, 
triumphantly. 

“Keller  just  said  that  to  catch  me.  You  didn’t 
see,  Keller,  and  you  don’t  know  who  the  girl  was, 
now.” 

“No,  but  I shall  soon  find  out,”  thought  Keller,  add- 
ing aloud,  “Sounds  like  Judith  Willard.  Father  or- 
ders her  to  take  exercise,  and  I’m  sure  such  a ride 
must  be  invigorating.” 

“Judith  Willard!  A perfect  lady  like  Judith! 


16 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER, 


What  an  idea!  When  all  the  exercise  she  takes  is 
her  French  exercise  — that’s  what  Robert  says,  and  it’s 
pretty  nearly  true.  Judith  Willard ! Why,  when  that 
calf  came  into  the  yard,  she  begged  Nao  — she  begged 
the  girl  to  stop ! ” 

Pauline  gave  Marian  a warning  touch  with  her  slip- 
per, under  the  table ; but  Marian  was  going  off  in  an 
uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter,  and  did  not  observe  it. 

“ Such  a figure ! That  calf!  Why,  he  was  so  fright- 
ened he  tried  to  go  over  the  moon.  He  just  jumped 
and  frisked,  and  away  went  his  feet,  flying  out  as  stiff 
as  boot-jacks  ! And  there  was  Naomi,  jouncing  up  and 
down  — ” 

‘‘So  ’twas  Naomi  Giddings,”  said  Keller,  quietly. 
“ I supposed  so.” 

“What  did  I say?  What  did  I say?”  exclaimed 
Marian,  her  voice  choked  by  a rising  sob,  and  muffled 
by  a handkerchief.  “It’s  all  owing  to  you.  Miss 
O’Neil.  O,  how  mean  of  you  to  come  here  and  make 
me  tell  tales  out  of  school!  It’s  just  like  you,  though; 
you’re  always  — ” 

“ Marian,”  said  Dr.  Prescott,  “ leave  the  table.” 

A hush  fell  on  the  little  party  as  the  poor  girl 
swept  out  of  the  room  in  a tempest  of  tears.  Pauline 
seemed  distressed,  and  Keller  remorseful.  Miss 
O’Neil  made  rapid  passes  over  her  apron,  and  looked 
insulted,  though  evidently  rejoiced  that  the  culprit  had 
been  brought  to  justice. 

“ I never  was  sent  from  the  table  but  twice  in  my 
life  before,”  sobbed  Marian,  flinging  herself  on  the 
wood-box  in  her  mother’s  room,  “ and  then  it  was  for 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END, 


17 


rudeness  to  Miss  ©’Neil.  And  she  going  about  like  a 
roaring  lion,  mamma,  picking  up  gossip ! ” 

Mrs.  Prescott  doubled  the  pillow  under  her  head, 
and  partly  raised  herself  on  her  elbow. 

“ My  dear  child,  how  can  you  forget  that  your  father 
insists  on  your  respecting  gray  hair?” 

“ O,  mamma,  I will,  and  I do  when  I see  it,”  said 
Marian,  ])reaking  into  another  whimsical  mixture  of 
laughter  and  tears.  ‘‘But  not  false  hair  — must  I? 
And  hers  is  the  falsest  I ever  saw.  Brown  week  days, 
and  black  Sundays!” 

Mrs.  Prescott  hid  a smile  in  the  hem  of  the  pillow- 
case. 

“Never  mind  about  faded  fronts  or  shallow  wits 
either,  little  Marian.  We  wish  our  daughter  to  grow 
up  gentle  and  refined.  A true  lady  never  willingly 
wounds  the  feelings  of  another.” 

“I  know  that,  mamma,  and  I do  try.  But  Miss 
O’Neil  is  so  aggravating!  and,  you  see.  Pm  naturally 
very  much  like  papa;  my  temperament  is  the  same 
thing  right  over  again.” 

“Your  temperament,  dear?  What  do  you  mean?” 

“ O,  mamma,  don’t,  please,  be  offended ; but  we  girls 
of  thirteen  have  a great  many  thoughts.  I know  my 
mind  will  never  be  great  and  scientific,  like  my  fa- 
ther’s; but  Pm  like  him  in  this;  the  moment  I think  any-  • 
thing,  it  runs  along  to  the  end  of  my  tongue,  and  I just 
ache  to  speak  it  right  out.  Now,  Pauline  is  like  you; 
she’s  got  a lock  and  key  to  her  mouth.  O,  dear ! O, 
dear ! If  I only  had  it ! ” 

Mrs.  Prescott  gazed  wonderingly  at  her  little  daugh- 
2 


18 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


ter.  Truly  girls  of  thirteen  did  think  straight  to  the 
point  sometimes. 

“ There,  there,  dear,  don’t  analyze  yourself  any  more. 
Crush  back  the  tears,  bathe  your  face,  and  tell  me  how 
you  offended  Miss  O’Neil.” 

‘‘Why,  you  see,  mamma,  it  was  about  a calf  that 
came  to  the  Academy  gate ; and  he  did  look  so  funny, 
with  a white  heart  in  his  forehead ! and  I suppose  it 
was  I that  let  him  in,  though  Marie  Smith  had  the 
melon  rind  — she’d  just  been  eating  watermelon. 
We  never  thought  of  anybody’s  riding  the  calf;  but  one 
of  the  girls  did  it.  And  those  poplar  trees  aren’t 
worth  a cent  for  shading  the  yard ; so  I suppose  some- 
body looked  over  and  saw;  and  Miss  O’Neil  got  half 
the  story,  as  usual,  and  came  here  on  purpose,  and 
called  for  her  boiled  eggs,  and  set  Keller  curious.  And 
1 was  taken  by  surprise ; so  I told  who  the  girl  was. 
I ask  you  if  it  wasn’t  mean  of  Miss  O’Neil.  I’m  sorry 
for  you  and  my  father  that  I snubbed  her,  but  not  on 
her  account,  I declare. 

“ don’t  I know  how  ’twill  be  ? My  father’ll  take 
me  out  of  the  Academy.  He  never  liked  it,  and  now 
he’ll  think  it’s  horrid.  Just  for  that  silly  woman,  mam- 
ma. She  hates  the  High  School,  but  she’s  pushing  me 
right  into  it. 

“Just  like  her!  So  Irish!” 


^UINNEBASSBT  GIRLS. 


19 


CHAPTER  II. 

QTJINNEBASSET  GIRLS. 

tHERE  is  a smooth-tongued  river  which  lies 
peacefully  in  its  bed  all  summer,  coaxing  the 
trees  upon  its  banks  to  rest  their  shadows  on 
its  tranquil  bosom,  yet  often  rises  in  rage  at  the  first 
storms  of  autumn,  tearing  away  the  very  trees  it  had 
been  holding  so  tenderly. 

This  fitful  little  river  once  did  a thriving  business,  . 
turning  sawmills  at  Quinnebasset ; but  in  one  of  its 
mad  freaks  it  carried  them  away,  and  the  town  never 
quite  recovered  from  their  loss.  The  current  of  trade 
set  towards  Poonoosac,  the  terminus  of  the  new  railroad, 
five  miles  below ; and  the  two  small  mills  afterwards 
rebuilt  at  Quinnebasset  had  little  to  do  beyond  sawing 
lumber  for  village  use,  or  grinding  corn  for  home-made 
johnny-cakes. 

So  bereaved  Quinnebasset  sat  down  with  folded 
hands  among  her  hills  to  think.  Her  brain  grew  more 
than  her  muscle.  She  ran  to  courts  and  schools.  A 
little  removed  from  the  main  street  stood  the  jail,  hid- 
ing behind  the  court-house,  as  crime  sometimes  hides 
behind  the  cloak  of  justice.  The  court-house  was  of  red 
brick,  and  wore  a pointed  crown.  It  had  an  arrogant, 
worldly  air,  which  the  white  church  next  it  rebuked  at 


20 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER. 


sunset  by  laying  the  shadow  of  Its  spire,  like  a warning 
finger,  upon  its  showy  decorations.  In  Marian’s  little- 
girlhood  these  buildings  had  seemed  emblematical. 
Red  represented  the  law,  while  the  gospel  was  j^ure 
white. 

As  for  schools,  there  was  the  Female  Academy  on 
the  south  side,  built  of  imposing  brick,  hiding  her  clas- 
sic head  behind  two  Lombardy  poplars,  which,  as  Marian 
had  said,  were  “not  worth  a cent  for  shading  the 
yard  ” (when  the  girls  were  playing  at  romps).  There 
was  the  High  School  on  the  north  side,  held  in  the  old 
white  school-house  every  autumn  by  some  learned 
youth,  half  or  three  fourths  out  of  college. 

Then  there  was  Miss  O’Neil’s  inflmt  class,  in  her 
cottage,  so  low  roofed,  that  the  rain-trough  under  the 
front  eaves  drooped  over  the  cross-eyed  windows,  like 
unruly  hair  over  a child’s  eyes.  Her  wooden  doorstep 
was  no  larger  than  a Thanksgiving  platter ; but  at  nine 
o’clock  in  the  morning  you  would  see  it  crowded  with 
little  folks  dreading  to  enter  the  house.  They  were 
sent  partly  from  charity,  partly  to  be  “ got  out  of  the 
way;”  but  the  time  and  patience  it  had  cost  their 
mammas  to  start  them  off  would  have  kept  them 
happy  at  home,  whereas  at  school  they  were  sure  to  be 
wretched;  for  Miss  O’Neil,  considering  the  small  size 
of  her  brain,  had  the  greatest  talent  ever  known  for 
making  little  folks  cry. 

“ She  sets  me  under  the  table,  side  of  a mouse’s 
trap,”  whimpered  Benjie,  dragged  along  between  his 
sister  Marian  and  her  friend  Judith  Willard.  “When 
I’m  a growed-up  man,  I won’t  go  to  Miss  ErNeil  to  the 
longest  day  I live.” 


^UINNEBASSBT  GIRLS, 


21 


Marian  and  Judith  exchanged  smiles  of  heartfelt 
sympathy. 

‘‘Poor  little  fellow!  Don’t  we  know  the  whole 
story,  Judith?  I should  think  we  might,  when  we 
‘learned  behavior’  at  the  same  school.  I’ve  been  think- 
ing lately  how  hard  it  is  always  to  do  the  very  things 
you  most  despise.  Always,  you  know  — as  long  as  you 
live  at  home,  I mean.  For  your  parents  think  it’s  for 
your  good,  and  never  notice  how  it  takes  the  heart 
right  out  of  you.” 

“ There,  Marian,  don’t  say  a word  — you  that  have  a 
mother.  What  if  she  doesn’t  understand  you  ? Think 
of  me,  with  none ! ” 

“ But  this  is  my  father  entirely.  He  says  I’m  be- 
coming a complete  hoiden.  That’s  why  he  sends  me 
among  those  great  boys.  He  considers  it  a ‘ restrain- 
ing inlluence.’  They  don’t  ride  calves  — O,  no.” 

“ Marian,  that  school  isn’t  high-toned.” 

“ Plebeian  as  can  be,  Judith.  Why,  the  tuition  is  a 
dollar  less  than  we  give  at  the  Academy,  and  there’s  a 
week  more  in  a term.  Those  facts  speak  for  them- 
selves, you  see.  But  my  father”  — Marian,  in  her 
pride  of  ownership,  always  said  my  father  — “thinks 
of  nothing  but  science  and  masteroid  processes. 
What  does  he  know  of  the  way  we  girls  feel  about  let- 
ting ourselves  down  to  associate  with  boys  ? ” 

“Very  true,  Marian;  but  if  you  go  to  the  High 
School,  I shall  go  too.” 

“O,  Judith,  I don’t  ask  it.  I don’t  expect  it.” 
“Pshaw!  what  are  friends  good  for  if  they  can’t 
make  sacrifices?”  said  Judith,  heroically. 


22 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


“Jude,  you  are  a blessed  old  darling!”  cried  Marian, 
giving  Benjie’s  hand  an  emphatic  little  squeeze. 

There  was  an  eloquent  pause,  during  which  both  girls 
probably  meditated  upon  the  nature  of  true  friendship. 

“There’s  one  good  thing  about  it,  and  that’s  the 
Lyceum.  O,  have  you  written  for  the  paper,  J udith  ? 
You  know  we  promised  Keller  we’d  try.” 

“No,”  sighed  Judith.  “I  had  to  finish  off  a sock  for 
aunt  Esther.  You  know  how  I’m  situated.  But  do 
you  suppose  they’d  accept  this  acrostic?  — My  last 
composition,  you  remember.” 

Marian  took  the  paper,  which  was  written  in  rather 
a quaint,  cramped  hand. 

“ C omposltion,  hateful  name  ! 

O , it  chills  my  feeble  frame. 

M any  a sigh  escapes  my  breast, 

P enning  lines  at  your  request. 

0 nly  let  me  be  excused ! 

S ure  I cannot  be  refused. 

1 f mine  were  a genius  rare, 

T lien  I’d  find  some  thoughts  to  spare. 

I , alas ! have  none  at  all, 

O r,  at  most,  ’tis  very  small. 

N ow,  pray,  excuse  me,  do,  this  fall.* 

“ Good  metre,”  said  Marian,  running  it  over  with  a 
wise  look.  “Here  we  are  at  Miss  O’Neil’s.  Now, 
Ben jie,  be  polite  to  her ; there’s  a little  man.  I mean 
to  bring  him  up  to  respect  her  false  hair,  if  I don’t, 
Judith.” 

“ But  what  do  you  think  of  my  poetry  ? ” pursued 
Judith,  anxiously.  “Would  you  drop  it  in  the  box,  or 
not  ? ” 


^UINNEBASSET  GIRLS. 


23 


“You  ask  me  just  as  if  my  word  was  law.  Yes,  I 
would  put  it  in,  by  all  means,”  replied  Marian,  her  face 
expressing  as  settled  a conviction  as  if  she  were  foreman 
of  a jury.  “I  don’t  know  that  it’s  quite  the  thing  for 
me  to  say;  but,  Jude,  I actually  think  you’re  a genius.” 
There  was  a triumphant  flash  in  Judith’s  eyes  at  these 
words,  which  would  have  illuminated  the  “Aurora”  glo- 
riously, if  it  could  only  have  got  into  the  box ! 

“Yes,  dear;  I wouldn’t  say  what  I didn’t  believe. 
Plow  queer  it  is,  when  you  just  think  of  it,  that  two 
friends,  like  you  and  me,  should  both  have  a talent  for 
poetry ! ” 

The  flash  in  Judith’s  eyes  faded  a little.  So  she  must 
share  her  laurels  with  Marian,  though  she  knew,  away 
down  in  her  secret  soul,  that  Marian  had  no  true  ear 
for  rhythm,  having  more  than  once  translated  her  Latin 
exercises  into  heroic  verse  with  as  many  feet  as  a cat- 
erpillar. 

“ She  doesn’t  know  false  measure  when  I show  it  to 
her,”  mused  Judith,  with  an  abstracted  look  in  the  di- 
rection of  a pair  of  oxen,  which  she  probably  did  not 
see,  but  very  likely  saw  through. 

“Yes,  I declare,  they  do  look  like  goblins  with  their 
hair  on  end ! ” 

“ What,  the  oxen  ? ” 

“ O,  no,  Marian ; our  Academy  poplars.” 

“ What  an  idea,  Judith ! Is  that  original  ? ” 

“No,  I read  it.  See  how  their  hair  seems  to  stand 
right  up  straight,  and  that  weeping  willow’s  hair  over 
in  Mrs.  Selden’s  yard  hangs  right  down  over  its  shoul- 
ders. Such  a contrast ! ” 

But  Marian  did  not  answer.  She  was  running  to 


24 


THE  DOCTOR"' S DAUGHTER. 


meet  a party  of  girls  who  were  pouring  out  of  the 
yard. 

‘‘O,  girls,  girls,  that  calf  has  just  ruined  me  en- 
tirely ! ” 

‘‘What  calf?  O,  I know.  Where  did  he  hurt 
you  ? ” returned  Marie  Smith,  taking  a mellow  cucum- 
ber out  of  her  pocket. 

“Girls,  just  listen;  that  everlasting  Miss  Soap- 
suds— ” 

“ Who’s  she  ? ” interrupted  the  literal  Marie,  paring 
her  cucumber. 

“Why,  Miss  O’Neil.  She  came  to  our  house  last 
night,  just  bubbling  over.  And  it  was  ‘Miriam  Lin- 
scott,’  she  said,  ‘ that  did  all  the  mischief,  and  went  in 
front  of  the  rear.’  And  such  a scolding  about  boys, 
when  all  the  while  she  meant  calves.  Somehow  my 
tongue  slipped,  with  her  and  Keller  both  teasing  me, 
and  I spoke  Naomi’s  name  right  out.  Now,  girls,  you 
don’t  think  I’d  be  so  mean  as  to  tell  on  purpose?  Say, 
do  you?” 

“No,  indeed,”  cried  a chorus  of  voices;  “but  never 
mind ; Mrs.  Hackett  knows ; so  it’s  all  over  town  by 
this  time,  and  your  telling  didn’t  make  the  least  differ- 
ence.” 

“ That  isn’t  what  I care  for,”  added  Marian,  with  a 
wistful  look  at  the  dear  old  Academy;  “but  I’ve  got 
to  leave  school.  My  father  hasn’t  liked  it  for  a long 
while;  he  thinks  it’s  too  free  and  easy;  and  now  he’s 
going  to  see  Miss  Lightbody,  and  tell  her  he  prefers  to 
have  me  study  with  Keller.” 

“O,  what  a shame!”  exclaimed  the  young  ladies; 


^UINNEBASSET  GIRLS. 


25 


‘‘just  for  Naomi  Giddings ! He  needn’t  think  we’re  all 
such  romps  as  she  ! ” 

Naomi  was  decidedly  unpol3ular,  and  as  she  hap- 
pened to  be  absent,  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world  to  stab  her  in  the  back. 

“We  can’t  spare  you,”  cried  half  a dozen  girls, 
crowding  around  Marian  like  needles  round  a magnet. 
“ What  gay  old  times  we’ve  had  together  ! ” 

“ Who’ll  bring  milk  to  eat  with  my  pickles  ? ” said 
Marie. 

“ Who’ll  make  up  faces  for  us  on  the  slate  ? ” said 
another. 

“ How  poky  ’twill  be,  with  nobody  to  set  us  all  laugh- 
ing ! ” 

“ Don’t  say  a word,”  returned  Marian,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes,  though  highly  gratified,  nevertheless.  “ I feel 
as  if  I belonged  here.  There’s  no  place  like  home.  I’d 
like  to  carry  off  those  dear  old  piazza  pillars,  scrawled 
with  all  your  handwritings.” 

Perhaps  “friendship  publishments”  were  peculiar  to 
Quinnebasset ; at  any  rate,  here  at  the  Female  Acade- 
my they  were  paraded  on  the  pillars  in  pencil-mark,  as 
much  a matter  of  course  as  the  publishments  of  mar- 
riage on  the  outside  of  the  meeting-house.  Thus  : — 

(“Marian  Prescott  and  Judith  Willard,  sworn 
friends.”) 

(“Marie  Smith  and  Oscaforia  Jones,  sworn  friends.”) 

Each  pair  enclosed  in  brackets,  which  seemed  to 
shut  them  in  to  a sort  of  sacred  privacy. 

“ W ell,  there,”  said  Marian,  shaking  off  a tear,  “ I’m 
not  Samson,  and  can’t  move  pillars ; but  I can  do  bet- 


26 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


ter.  I can  move  Judith.  She’s  going  to  the  High 
School,  too.” 

‘‘Judith  ? Why,  that’s  too  bad,”  exclaimed  the  girls, 
with  feeble  remonstrance. 

“Precious  little  they  care,”  thought  Judith,  setting 
her  lips  together  proudly.  Yet  there  were  girls  there 
who  did  not  like  Marian,  whereas  of  Judith  it  might 
be  said  that  she  never  had  an  enemy. 


PAULINE  AND  KELLER. 


27 


CHAPTER  III. 


PAULINE  AND  KELLER. 


O you  suppose  it’s  anything  like  the  brand  of 
Cain?”  asked  Judith,  thoughtfully,  ‘‘Only 
in  a different  part  of  the  face  ? ” 

The  question  had  reference  to  a slight  blemish  on 
the  High  School  teacher’s  otherwise  pleasing  counte- 
nance— a brown  mark,  the  size  of  a large  copper  cent, 
high  up  on  the  left  cheek-bone. 

“ O,  no,”  replied  Marian,  confidently.  “ Cain’s  mark 
was  not  visible ; so  the  Bible  Dictionary  says.  That 
reminds  me  that  last  summer  I wrote  an  essay  on 
him.” 

“An  essay  on  Cain!” 

“Yes;  my  father  wishes  us  to  learn  Bible  his- 
tory; so  he  gives  us  books  of  reference,  and  has  us 
write  long  strings  of  things  he  calls  essays.  It’s  capital 
fun ; but  you  ought  to  see  what  a bungle  Keller  makes 
of  it.  I actually  pity  him  sometimes;  and,  Judith,  do 
you  know  he  is  to  speak  in  Lyceum  next  week?  I de- 
clare I shall  want  to  stay  at  home.” 

Judith  said  nothing;  but  she  thought  Dr.  Prescott’s 
children  ought  to  find  no  task  too  difficult  for  them. 
Ah,  if  she  herself  only  had  such  a father!  She  and 
Marian  had  now  been  attending  the  High  School  some 


28 


DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 

days.  It  was  humiliating  indeed  to  go  from  the  aris- 
tocratic walls  of  the  Female  Academy  to  a low-ceiled 
school-house ; from  cane-seated  chairs  to  wooden 
benches ; from  elegant  desks  — behind  whose  lids  you 
could  eat  taffy  and  peanuts  — to  rude  ones,  with 
nothing  but  sliding  boards  to  answer  the  purpose  of 
drawers. 

Still  there  is  a silver  lining  to  every  cloud,  if  one 
could  only  get  on  the  right  side  to  look  for  it.  Mr. 
Loring  was  a better  scholar  and  a more  faithful  teacher 
than  Miss  Lightbody.  He  was  no  stranger  to  the 
girls,  being  a law  student  of  Judge  Dillingham’s,  and  a 
frequent  visitor  at  Dr.  Prescott’s.  Moreover  Marian 
and  Judith  had  not  been  doing  much  in  Latin,  beyond 
translating  a few  odes  of  Horace  into  very  irregular 
metre;  and,  in  their  blind  ignorance  of  the  Gram- 
mar, it  was  rather  stimulating  to  find  themselves  now 
in  a class  where  they  were  required  to  give  a reason 
and  a rule,  and  no  allowance  made  for  mistakes. 

‘‘If  it  is  plebeian  here,  it’s  thorough,”  said  Marian. 
“O,  how  we’ve  been  galloping  over  our  Arithmetic! 
Don’t  you  feel  ashamed?” 

“ On  the  whole,”  admitted  J udith,  “ perhaps  it’s  as 
well  we  came.  And  then,  too,  we  can  be  such  a help 
to  the  boys ! ” 

Robert  Willard  might  have  smiled  if  he  had  heard 
Judith  say  this.  He  felt  himself  well  fitted  to  stand 
up  and  brave  the  storms  of  life  without  any  aid  from 
his  delicate  young  sister.  Keller  Prescott,  too,  would 
have  scorned  the  idea  of  being  influenced  by  a girl! 
Still,  they  liked  to  have  Marian  and  Judith  at  school. 


PAULINE  AND  KELLER, 


29 


and  in  their  classes,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  getting  a 
stronger  assurance  of  their  own  superiority. 

“ Pauline ! ” cried  Keller,  slamming  the  side-door  like 
a north-easter ; “ where’s  Pauline  ? ” 

“In  the  dining-room,”  called  she.  “Don’t  step  on 
the  tacks.” 

“ Who  cares  for  tacks  ? I’m  on  the  affirmative,  and 
the  boys  are  all  up  about  it.” ' 

“Up?  What  for?”  said  Pauline,  coolly,  continuing 
to  nail  down  the  oil-cloth  in  front  of  the  stove. 

“ What  for?  Why,  because  I’m  put  on  the  question, 
instead  of  one  of  the  rest.  I’m  the  first  boy  in  my 
class  that  has  had  such  an  honor,”  added  he,  jogging 
his  sister’s  elbow,  by  way  of  pointing  the  remark. 
“ I suppose  you  know  that.” 

“I  know  you’ve  made  me  pound  my  finger.” 

“ Hit  the  wrong  nail,  hey  ? Sorry ! I’m  off  now  to 
consult  the  Cyclopaedias.  Got  to  read  up  from  the 
foundation  of  the  world  dowm  to  the  last  town-meet- 
ing.— Where’s  Josephus  ? ” 

“Josephus!  Do  tell  me,  have  you  got  to  speak  on 
theology?  ” said  Pauline,  laying  down  the  hammer. 

“Of  course  not.  Question  reads,  ‘Resolved,  that 
the  evil  men  do  lives  after  them;  the  good  is  oft  in- 
terred with  their  bones.’  That’s  Shakespeare ; Antony 
said  it  of  Caesar.  I contend  that  Antony  was  right.  I 
think  precisely  the  reverse,  mind  you;  but  when  we 
speechify,  we  do  it  for  the  sake  of  argument,  you  under- 
stand.” 

“ To  be  sure,”  laughed  Pauline.  “ Kow  my  advice  to 
you  is,  just  to  shut  yourself  into  the  library,  and  not 


30 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


come  out  till  tea-time.  You  know  how  it  is  with  you; 
it’s  so  hard  for  you  to  fix  your  thoughts ! ” 

“ Why,  Pauline ! ” exclaimed  the  boy,  evidently 
wounded.  “Just  mention  anybody  that  can  harp  on 
one  string  longer  than  I can.” 

“On  a bow-string  or  a fish-line,”  thought  Pauline, 
but  wisely  refrained  from  saying  it.  She  had  her  own 
private  convictions  as  to  the  success  her  brother  would 
meet  with  in  writing,  and  gazed  after  him  wistfully,  as 
he  crossed  the  narrow  isthmus  of  entry,  and  passed 
into  the  sitting-room.  He  did  not  sto]3  to  have  any 
words  with  Marian,  who  was  at  the  bay  window,  help- 
ing Benjie  blow  bubbles,  but  passed  on,  across  the  front 
entry  into  his  father’s  office,  and  out  of  that  into  the 
library  — a small  room,  whose  walls  were  lined  with 
books,  and  whose  door  had  the  advantage  of  a good 
lock  and  key. 

For  a while  there  was  a great  noise  of  dragging  heavy 
volumes  across  the  floor,  and  shoving  chairs  against 
the  table,  with  a monotonous  undertone  of  whistling ; 
and  in  the  course  of  an  hour  Keller  emerged  from  the 
library,  his  hair  standing  up  fierce  and  thick,  like  the 
Black  Forest,  the  daring  look  gone  from  his  face,  and 
his  full  black  eyes  wide  open  with  the  stare  of  a som- 
nambulist. 

“ Pauline,”  said  he,  stealthily  waylaying  her,  as  she 
was  bringing  butter  out  of  the  cellar,  “ Pve  got  ideas 
enough ; fact  is,  I’ve  got  too  many.  All  that  pesters 
me  is,  what  to  do  with  ’em.  Suppose,  — well,  you 
know,  suppose  I tell  you  exactly  what  to  write,  and 
then  i/ou  write  it.” 


PAULINE  AND  KELLER. 


31 


Pauline  met  her  brother’s  rather  sheepish  look  with 
a good-natured  smile. 

“Yes,  my  boy;  but  let  me  toast  the  bread  first;  and 
you  run  in  and  ask  mother  whether  she’ll  have  currant 
jelly  or  quince  marmalade.” 

“ Pauline,  you’re  a diamond,”  said  Keller,  with  a re- 
lieved look. 

But  his  exalted  opinion  of  her  was  destined  to  a fall. 
With  the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  she  could  not 
seize  the  thoughts  he  did  not  give  her.  Keller  had  a 
high  ideal.  Away  up  out  of  reach,  he  dimly  saw  the 
very  thing  he  wanted  — an  iron  chain  of  argument,  fes- 
tooned with  graceful  flowers  of  rhetoric.  O,  if  he  could 
only  get  at  it ! 

“ I want  the  speech  to  be  real  sound,  you  know,  and 
sort  of  elegant,  too.  We  must  get  in  something  about 
Brutus.  ‘ Be  ready,  gods,’  says  he,  ‘ with  all  your 
thunderbolts ; dash  him  to  pieces ! ’ and  so  forth.  ‘ Put 
a tongue  in  every  wound  of  Caesar,’  says  Antony. 
Something  about  Nero  and  his  fiddle,  and  Bloody 
Mary,  and  that  wicked  old  what’s-her-name  that 
stirred  up  the  Huguenot  fight.  Something  about 
Oliver  Cromwell  — wouldn’t  you  ? And  Scripture,  too. 
‘As  a tree  lieth,  so  shall  it  fall.’  And  nobody  re- 
members anything  now  of  Andre  but  those  papers  in 
his  boots.  Evil  lives  after  men,  you  understand ; the 
good  is  buried  with  their  bones  — that’s  the  point  of 
the  argument.  And  wind  off  with  a verse  of  Paradise 
Lost,  or  some  such.” 

“Why,  Keller  Prescott,”  said  Pauline,  laughing  out- 
right, “you’re  worse  than  Miss  O’Neil!  Of  all  the 


32 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


whirlabout  heads ! Go  to  Marian,  and  see  if  you  can 
make  her  understand.  I’m  sure  I haven’t  the 
brains.” 

“ Marian ! What  does  she  know  of  logic  ? ” said  Kel- 
ler, wheeling  suddenly  round,  and  stalking  out  of  the 
room  with  ineffable  disdain. 

“Poor  boy,  I wish  I could  help  him,”  thought  the 
kind  elder  sister;  “but  it  is  evident  I was  not  intended 
for  the  rostrum.  And  of  course  he  is  too  proud  to  go 
to  father.” 

That  was  the  last  Pauline  heard  of  “ the  affirmative  ” 
till  the  next  W ednesday  evening,  when  she  started  for 
the  Lyceum  with  fear  and  trembling,  Marian  and  Ju- 
dith trudging  beside  her  in  the  moonlight. 

“ W on’t  it  seem  odd  to  hear  our  Keller  speak  before 
all  those  people?”  said  Marian.  “Against  Silas  Hack- 
ett,  too,  who  has  such  a nimble  tongue ! So  still  as 
the  boy  has  kept ! How  could  he  get  a speech  ready 
without  turning  the  whole  house  upside  down  ? ” 

“ Don’t  borrow  trouble,  child,”  said  the  older  sister, 
uneasily;  but  she  herself  needed  the  warning.  Her 
family  pride  was  strong,  and  she  had  a restless  forebod- 
ing of  mortification  to  come. 

Judith,  for  her  part,  was  in  a little  flatter  of  sus- 
pense regarding  her  poem.  Would,  or  would  it  not, 
be  received  ? 

The  seats  were  well  filled  to-night.  Many  of  the 
boys  were  forced  to  stand  against  the  walls,  wriggling 
their  caps  between  their  teeth,  the  awful  president 
watching  them  from  his  desk. 

Marian  and  Pauline  looked  around  for  Keller. 


PAULINE  AND  KELLER,  33 

He  was  sitting  quite  serene  in  one  of  the  middle 
seats,  snuffing  a candle  between  a jackknife  and 
a slate,  kerosene  lamps  being  forbidden  by  Lyceum 
law.  What  was  the  boy  thinking  of,  to  be  so 
calm? 


3 


34 


the  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

KELLER  AND  MARIAN. 

R.  LORING,  the  j)resident,  had  told  Pauline 
that  Keller  was  not  to  open  the  question,  and 
this  was  a great  relief  to  the  anxious  sister. 

There  were  two  disputants  on  each  side,  and  the  first 
to  rise  was  Pitkin  Jones.  Keller  snuffed  the  candle, 
and  smiled  ironically.  There  was  always  more  or  less 
smiling  when  Pitkin  spoke.  His  hands  were  very 
white,  and  he  kept  them  waving  like  flags  of  truce,  or 
poked  them  through  his  hair  till  it  resembled  the 
course  of  true  love,  which  never  did  run  smooth.  Some 
of  the  young  girls  listened  to  him  with  rapt  attention. 
To  be  sure,  they  did  not  clearly  understand  what  he 
was  talking  about,  but  then  the  mystification  was  de- 
lightful. Judith  thought  it  sounded  like  Tennyson. 
After  quite  a lengthy  harangue,  Pitkin  gave  his  vest 
pocket  a final  pound,  and  sat  down,  amid  loud  applause 
from  the  small  boys. 

“ If  I haven’t  more  logic  than  that  fellow,  I hope  I 
may  be  shot,”  thought  Keller,  conning  over  and  over 
the  words  of  his  speech : ‘‘  Mr.  President : sir,  I rise  on 
this  occasion,”  &c.  He  had  it  safe  and  sure.  Ever 
since  Pauline  had  said,  “You  know,  Keller,  how  hard 
it  is  for  you  to  fix  your  thoughts,”  he  had  worked  at 


KELLER  AND  MARIAN 


35 


that  speech,  to  use  his  own  comparison,  like  a Dutch 
dog  at  a churn.”  It  was  not  absolutely  perfect,  per- 
haps, but  he' did  think  a youth  of  his  age  had  seldom 
written  one  as  good.  He  was  not  vain ; but  facts  are 
facts,  and  in  this  case  would  speak  for  themselves. 

Next  in  order  came  Silas  Hackett.  “ Glad  I have 
the  use  of  my  legs,”  thought  Keller.  “ He  walks  like  a 
galvanized  frog.”  His  motions  were  certainly  rather 
jerky;  but  then,  as  the  villagers  declared,  “Silas  was 
tongue-y.”  He  knew  what  he  had  to  say,  and  said 
it;  and,  though  he  might  not  round  his  sentences  as 
well  as  that  piece  of  eloquence,  Pitkin  Jones,  yet  he 
could  point  them  better ; and,  when  you  are  debating 
a question,  point  is  something.  Pauline  might  well 
dread  to  have  her  brother  rise  after  the  sensible  Mr. 
Hackett. 

And  now  comes  Keller  Prescott.  Really  he  is  a 
handsome  youth.  His  face  is  very  pale,  as  if  at  a white 
heat,  and  a strange  fire  burns  in  his  eyes.  How  he 
gets  down  the  aisle  he  does  not  know,  for  his  legs  have 
suddenly  turned  into  a pair  of  walking-sticks — no 
joints  — no  feet.  Talk  of  galvanized  frogs!  But  in 
some  mysterious  way  he  finds  himself  “taking  the 
floor,”  which  spins  under  him. 

The  air  is  full  of  eyes  — every  eye  ])ricking  along  his 
nerves  like  a needle.  He  tries  to  speak,  but  there  is 
something  in  his  throat  — it  is  his  heart!  Yes,  it 
thumps  close  to  his  palate,  fills  his  whole  chest,  has  be- 
come as  large,  to  say  the  least,  as  a bass  drum.  Now  he 
has  somehow  got  inside  of  it.  Speaking  may  let  him 
out ; it  must,  it  will. 


36 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


He  turns  his  back  upon  Mr.  Loring,  and  convulsively 
shrieks,  with  a wild  bow  at  nothing, — 

‘‘Mr.  President!” 

What ! It  is  a whisper ! 

- He  wheels  right  about  face. 

“ Mr.  President : sir ! ” 

This  time  it  is  a hoarse  growl,  like  “low  and  mutter- 
ing summer  thunder.” 

“ Mr.  Prescott,”  responds  the  president,  with  an  en- 
couraging smile. 

But  where  is  Keller’s  speech  ? He  throws  up  both 
hands,  but  he  cannot  catch  it ; could  as  soon  grasp  the 
evening  star.  A moment  ago  it  was  here ; now  where  ? 
Gone  ! “ Gone,  like  the  light,  quick  shiver  of  a wing.” 

“Well,  I might  as  well  give  up  now.  I’ve  been  and 
gone  and  done  it  this  time,”  thinks  poor  Keller,  with  a 
vague  pity  for  the  boys  he  had  formerly  laughed  at.  He 
looks  up,  reckless  with  despair.  Out  of  the  sea  of  eyes 
one  pair  shines  down  on  him  with  love  and  good  cheer. 
It  was  as  if  Pauline  had  sung  to  her  boy,  — 

“ There’s  a light  in  the  window  for  thee.” 

That  great  bass  drum  dissolved  like  a bank  of  fog. 
Keller  felt  that  he  was  out  of  it ; he  was  free.  Pauline 
shouldn’t  be  ashamed  of  him ; he  would  surprise  her 
just  as  he  had  all  along  intended  to  do. 

And,  with  one  of  the  sudden  transitions,  so  charac- 
teristic of  the  boy,  he  roused  himself,  shook  off  his  stage 
fright,  took  a bold  step  forward,  made  a graceful  bow, 
and  finding  his  speech  would  not  come  back,  began 
with  perfect  ease  to  — make  up  another. 

“ The  question  is,  Mr.  President,  does  the  evil  men 


KELLER  AND  MARIAN. 


37 


do  live  after  them,  while  the  good  is  interred  with  their 
bones  ? I contend  that  it  does.” 

A slight  pause.  Marian  leaned  forward,  with  lips 
apart.  Pauline  sat  motionless.  ‘‘  What  would  he  say 
next  ? ” That  was  precisely  what  the  boy  was  curious 
to  know  himself! 

“ Mr.  President : Mark  Antony  felt  very  bitter  when 
he  said  those  words.  And  he  had  reason  to,”  continued 
Keller,  his  voice  gathering  force  as  he  went  on,  till 
its  clear  boyish  ring  was  heard  to  the  farthest  corner 
of  the  room.  “ Mark  Antony  knew  the  Romans  had 
forgotten  all  Ca3sar’s  noble  deeds,  and  were  swooping 
down  on  him  like  a flock  of  vultures  on  a dead  lion. 
O,  yes ! And  Antony  didn’t  dare  to  praise  him.  O, 
no!  For  the  Romans  thought  he  had  one  fault  — he 
was  too  ambitious. 

“And,  Mr.  President,  it’s  just  so. this  minute.  You 
let  a man  do  one  bad  thing,  and  that’s  the  end  of  him. 
Let  two  men  come  here  to  Quinnebasset,  sir;  one  just 
out  of  our  jail  — been  in  for  stealing  a horse;  and  the 
other  hadn’t ; he  had  behaved  himself,  and  taken  care 
of  his  mother.  Well,  wlio’d  notice  the  good  man? 
He’d  only  done  his  duty,  sir.  And  in  case  he  should 
die,  how  many  of  us  would  go  to  his  funeral,  Mr.  Pres- 
ident, he  being  a stranger  ? And  wouldn’t  the  good 
he’d  done  be  shovelled  right  on  top  o’  the  coffin  with 
the  dirt,  sir?  To  be  sure  it  would;  and  perhaps  the 
sexton  would  drive  in  a stick  for  a gravestone,  and  per- 
haps he  wouldn’t. 

“ But  now  there’s  that  horse  thief,  Mr.  President. 
His  follows  him!  And  it’s  all  the  work  he  gets, 
Mr.  President.  Why,  you  wouldn’t  let  him  black  your 


38 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


boots,  sir!  There  isn’t  a woman  in  this  town  would 
let  him  black  her  stove,  sir. 

“And  supposing  he  should  die,  would  the  evil  be 
shovelled  into  his  grave?  Not  a bit  of  it!  If  he 
leaves  a family,  I declare  they  ought  to  be  pitied. 
Everybody’d  remember  their  father  was  a jail-bird. 
The  evil  lives  after  him,  don’t  you  see,  sir?  and  you 
can’t  kill  it  out,  any  more  than  Canada  thistles. 

“That’s  all  I have  to  say,  Mr.  President.  It’s  no 
use  to  talk  all  night,  sir,  on  a j3lain  question  like  this.” 
Whereupon  the  young  orator  marched  to  his  seat, 
and  quietly  snuffed  out  his  candle. 

“Well  done,”  said  all  faces;  and  the  small  boys 
clapped  with  a will.  Pauline  sent  him  a glance  of 
hearty  approval;  but  Keller  kept  his  head  turned 
away,  watching  a little  libation  of  candle-grease  cool- 
ing on  his  thumb.  He  seemed  to  shrink,  with  boyish 
modesty,  from  meeting  any  one’s  eyes,  when  all  were 
so  eloquent  of  praise. 

There  was  more  speaking,  after  which  the  vote  was 
taken,  and  the  knotty  question  “ laid  on  the  table.” 
Then  came  the  paper.  Judith  listened  with  throb- 
bing heart,  hoping,  yet  dreading,  to  hear  her  acrostic. 
Marian’s  cheeks  turned  suddenly  white.  What  was 
Mr.  Lyman  reading  about  a “ wanderer  on  the  face  of 
the  earth  ” ? Her  own  words,  scribbled  on  a slate  in 
the  barn ! Her  essay  on  Cain,  composed  at  her  father’s 
request,  and  “pooh-poohed”  by  him  as  very  “bombas- 
tic.” How  had  it  crept  into  the  “Aurora”?  She 
had  certainly  left  it  in  the  big  atlas  in  the  library. 
Who  knew  but  her  father  had  given  it  to  Mr.  Lyman 
with  his  own  hands  ? Then  he  must  have  liked  it  bet- 


KELLER  AND  MARIAN, 


39 


ter  than  he  pretended.  Didn’t  it  sound  grand,  though  ? 
The  sentences  rolled  along  like  battle  music,  with,  now 
and  then,  a terrific  crash.  Marian  was  in  ecstasies.  If 
her  father  were  only  there  to  hear!  How  proud  he 
would  be  of  his  son  and  daughter,  if  he  could  only 
know ! 

But  Marian  was  not  left  to  revel  in  perfect  triumph. 
Mr.  Lyman  finished  reading,  folded  the  sheet,  looked 
up,  and  said, — 

‘‘This  article  must  be  heard  with  indulgence,  on 
account  of  the  extreme  youth  of  the  writer.” 

“ Isn’t  that  mean  ? ” thought  trembling  Marian, 
“ when  it  would  have  passed  for  a gi’own-up  piece ! ” 

To  lier  relief,  however,  the  audience  all  kept  their 
seats,  and  did  not  even  turn  their  heads,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  to  gaze  about  tlie  house  with  curiosity ; 
otherwise  she  knew  she  should  have  blushed  and  be- 
trayed herself. 

“Judith,”  said  she,  as  they  walked  home  together, 
arm  in  arm,  “what  did  Mr.  Lyman  mean  by  saying, 
‘This  article  must  be  heard  with  indulgence?’  Now, 
was  that  a compliment,  or  not  ? ” 

“ O,  a compliment,  of  course.” 

“Do  you  really  think  so?  I — I — was  afraid  he 
might  have  meant  the  tiling  was  so  silly  he  had  to 
make  excuses  for  it.  But  wasn’t  it  queer  it  should 
have  got  into  the  paper,  when  I never  put  it  there,  and 
your  acrostic,  that  you  did  put  in,  wasn’t . read  at  all  ? 
What  in  the  world  — ” 

“ Hush,  Marian  ; Mr.  Loring  and  Pauline  are  just 
behind  us,”  whispered  heart-sore  Judith,  too  proud  to 
talk  about  her  trials.  That  was  always  the  way,  sh^ 


40 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


thought.  To  Marian  all  the  bright  and  rare  things,  to 
herself  nothing  but  disappointments.  There  Avas  a 
difference  even  in  their  dresses.  Marian’s  fitted 
smoothly,  her  own  never  did;  they  were  as  full  of 
wrinkles  as  an  old  Avoman’s  face.  It  wasn’t  fair  to 
tell  her  this  Avas  because  she  stooped;  she  knew 
better.  It  Avas  because  they  were  fadged  out  of  old- 
fashioned,  second-hand  things.  Aunt  Esther  Had  once 
been  a tailoress,  but  Judith  couldn’t  see  that  that  was 
any  reason  she  should  try  to  fit  dresses.  She  Avished 
aunt  Esther  didn’t  “ feel  such  an  interest.”  “ With  six 
children  to  feed  and  clothe,  folks  must  be  ‘ equinonii- 
cal^  or  they  can’t  make  both  ends  meet.”  So  said  the 
good  woman,  as  she  trimmed  Judith’s  linings,  making 
both  ends  of  the  scissors  meet  in  the  child’s  neck. 

Noav,  this  was  rather  vexing,  Avhen,  as  everybody 
knew,  Mr.  Willard  was  a “fore-handed”  merchant, 
Avorth  tAvice  as  much  as  Dr.  Prescott. 

Perhaps  we  all  of  us  unconsciously  envy  somebody, 
and  I am  sure  poor  little  Judith  had  no  idea  she  was 
murmuring  against  ProAudence,  Avhen  she  Avdshed  she 
had  a SAveet  mother,  like  Mrs.  Prescott,  instead  of 
“ equinomical  ” aunt  Esther,  and  wished  she  had  an 
older  sister  Pauline,  and  Avished  — 

But  before  she  had  “swung  round  the  circle”  of  her 
wishes  Marian  gave  her  elboAV  a squeeze,  and  called  her 
attention  to  Robert,  just  in  advance  of  them,  saying  to 
Miss  O’Neil,  “Will  you  take  my  arm?”  For  the 
last  of  the  royal  Irish  family  was  limping  Avith  a 
wretchedly  tight  shoe ; and,  disagreeable  as  she  might 
be,  and  often  as  she  had  boxed  his  ears,  Robert  Avould 
go  out  of  his  way  any  time  to  befriend  her,  simply 


KELLER  AND  HIS  MOTHER.  Page  41. 


KELLER  AND  MARIAN, 


41 


because  she  was  a forlorn  old  soul,  and  he  was  nat- 
urally chivalrous  towards  women. 

‘‘Thank  you,  Samuel.  I always  thought  everything 
of  your  family,”  replied  Miss  O’Neil,  graciously,  accept- 
ing the  proffered  arm  with  a smile  like  sunshine  on 
clear  honey.  “You  learned  your  behavior  at  my 
school,  dear.  You  are  as  polite  as  the  young  men  at 
Machias.” 

“Just  hear  that  Soapsuds!”  whispered  Marian. 
“ Why,  Rob’s  taller  than  she  is.  Isn’t  he  mon- 
strous ? ” 

Judith  thought  not.  He  was  just  right,  shaggy 
head,  high  shoulders,  and  all.  And  that  reminded 
her  that  she  loved  liim  dearly,  and  that  Marian  hadn’t 
everything  in  the  world,  after  all. 

“ Perhaps  he  isn’t  as  handsome  as  Keller ; but  I 
guess  beauty  isn’t  everything,”  said  she,  straighten- 
ing her  shoulders. 

“O,  Rob’s  worth  two  of  Keller,”  said  Marian,  coolly: 
“ I always  knew  that.” 

“Well,  I never,”  returned  Judith,  much  pleased. 
“If  I thought  so  I wouldn’t  own  it.  What  a queer 
girl  you  are  ! ” 

They  had  now  reached  Dr.  Prescott’s.  As  Marian 
entered  the  sitting-room,  she  was  surprised  to  see 
her  mother  in  the  easy-chair;  for  since  her  recent  ill- 
ness, Mrs.  Prescott  seldom  sat  up  late  of  an  evening. 
Keller,  who  had  been  at  home  some  minutes,  was 
kneeling  on  the  rug  at  her  feet,  making  extravagant 
gestures. 

“Why,  mother,  I was  surprised  at  myself!  Tell  you 
what,  sir ; I hadn’t  the  least  idea  I could  make  such  a 


42 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


speech!  Offhand,  too!  Extempore.  Why  it  flashed 
out  of  my  mouth,  sir,  just  like  forked  lightning.” 

Here  Keller,  seeing  Marian,  sprang  up  in  some  con- 
fusion. These  little  private  confabs  he  sometimes  held 
with  his  mother  were  intended  for  her  ear  alone.  It 
was  embarrassing  to  have  them  overheard  by  a third 
person. 


A GREAT  SURPRISE. 


43 


CHAPTER  V. 

A GREAT  SURPRISE. 

**  Be  good,  fair  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever; 

Do  noble  deeds,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long, 

And  so  make  life,  death,  and  the  vast  forever 
One  grand,  sweet  song.” 

t HERE,  mother  wrote  that  on  this  card  more 
than  a year  ago,  and  when  she  gave  it  to  me,  I 
slipped  it  right  into  my  journal.  It  was  the 
next  day  after  my  essay  on  Cain  was  read  in  the 
Lyceum,  and  I suppose  my  head  was  a little  high,  and 
mother  noticed  it. 

‘‘  I am  glad  it  was  not  you  who  put  that  article 
in  the  paper,”  said  she ; “ it  was  more  excusable  in 
Keller.” 

She  and  my  father  have  such  a way  of  taking  people 
down  ! Mother  does  it  gently,  just  as  she  would  draw 
her  Madeira  vine  away  from  the  sun  ; but  my  father 
does  it  with  a thump.  I understand  my  father,  and  I 
don’t  care  ; but  Keller  feels  it ; it  makes  him  sore. 

After  that  first  speech  of  his  at  the  Lyceum,  when 
he  thought  himself  a second  Cicero,  and  went  about 
the  house  declaiming  before  all  the  looking-glasses,  my 
father  told  him  he  mustn’t  be  lifted  up  by  that  one 


44 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER. 


success ; lie  mustn’t  think  words  would  always  flow 
right  into  his  mouth. 

« Why,”  said  my  father,  “ you  had  been  thinking  of 
the  subject  so  much,  that,  even  though  you  forgot  your 
written  speech,  the  ideas  were  all  in  your  mind.  So 
don’t  fancy  you  can  do  without  hard  work.  Don’t  go 
into  the  floor  to  make  a S23eech,  trusting  to  the  ins|iira- 
tion  of  the  moment.” 

But  Keller  only  thought  my  father  didn’t  appreciate 
him,  and  he  j)ut  on  that  look  of  his,  as  if  he  knew  bet- 
ter than  anybody  else,  which  is  so  provoking  in  Keller. 
And  next  time  he  spoke  he  didn’t  prepare  himself  at 
all ; and  what  a piece  of  work  he  made ! A great 
lawyer  he’ll  be,  if  he  doesn’t  apply  himself  more ! I 
wish  he  were  like  Robert  Willard ; and  then  again  I 
don’t  know  that  I do.  Rob’s  so  big  and  clumsy ! And 
what  outlandish-looking  coats  his  aunt  Esther  does 
make  for  him! 

But  there,  I mustn’t  sit  dreaming.  My  father  says 
reveries  are  very  enervating  to  the  mind.  Not  that 
this  is  exactly  a reverie,  though  ; hot  like  J udith’s. 
She  gets  lost  in  hers,  like  a thick  fog.  Come  out  here. 

Miss,  Totteyiham. 

March  3.  (It  is  more  than  a year.  Miss  T.,  since 
you  and  I had  a chat.  I do  feel  ashamed.  But 
writing  is  not  easy  for  me ; it’s  like  catching  thistle- 
down. What  has  happened  this  year  ?) 

Mother  has  had  several  ill  turns.  My  father  talks  of 
sending  her  to  Cuba. 

(That  looks  badly  in  black  and  white.  Still  I am 
sure  there  is  no  danger  of  her  dying.  Miss  O’Neil  said 


A GREAT  SURPRISE. 


45 


to  her  once,  ‘‘I  hope  you’re  prepared  for  the  other 
world,  Mrs.  Linscott ; your  case  is  alarming.”  ‘‘  Don’t 
say  alarming,”  answered  my  dear  mother,  with  a 
smile.  ‘‘  I am  not  afraid ; I know  God  will  do 
right.”  And  so  He  will,  I am  sure.  He  cannot  mean 
to  take  her  away  from  us.  There  are  women  who  can 
be  spared,  hard  as  it  must  be,  — but  not  my  mother. 
But  think  of  Miss  O’Neil  exhorting  her.,  when  she’s  an 
angel,  and  has  belonged  to  the  church  for  years  and 
years !) 

Pauline  is  as  good  as  ever. 

(Yes,  she  never  scolds  any  one  but  me.  She  comes 
often,  and  puts  my  room  to  rights,  and  then  reads  me 
a little  lecture ; but  I try  to  be  patient.  I know  dirt 
and  disorder  annoy  Pauline  very  much ; there’s  the 
trouble.  Her  mind  runs  on  such  trifles.) 

She  would  make  a capital  wife. 

(I  never  thought  of  such  a thing  till  last  week,  and 
then  it  flashed  into  my  mind.  Why  does  Mr.  Loring 
come  here  so  much  to  read  German,  when  they  don’t 
always  read  it  ? And  I made  that  remark  to  Pauline, 
and  she  only  said,  just  as  red  as  a rose,  “Little  girls 
shouldn’t  be  always  surmising.”  I don’t  know  what 
you  call  surmising.  I don’t  think  I surmised  before, 
but  now  I do ; I can’t  help  it.) 

Judith  and  I have  been  going  to  High  School 
autumns,  and  to  town  school  winters,  and  I think  we 
have  learned  well ; and  it  has  been  a help  to  the  boys. 
Robert  was  always  as  steady  as  a mill,  but  Keller 
is  very  flighty.  He  ran  away  when  he  was  twelve 
years  old. 

(There,  I wish  I hadn’t  written  that ! He  can  learn 


46 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


quicker  than  I ; but  he  puts  it  off  till  the  last  minute, 
playing  base  ball  or  something,  so  I get  ahead  of  him ; 
but  that  mortifies  him,  and  then  he  studies  with  a ven- 
geance. I ought  not  to  record  how  he  ran  away, 
though.  I’ll  take  a pounce,  and  see  if  I can  erase  it 
neatly.) 

My  father  regrets  that  we  have  no  graded  school  at 
Quinnebasset.  Keller  has  been  at  Exeter  ever  since 
last  September.  Judith  says  her  aunt  Esther  thinks 
my  father  is  crazy  to  send  him,  for  he  can’t  afford  it. 

(I  suppose  she  knows  ! It  seems  very  lonesome,  for 
Keller  was  always  whistling.  It  is  so  muddy  that 
people  don’t  go  out  much,  and  Pauline  told  Benjie  she 
would  give  him  ten  cents  a day  if  he  would  swing  the 
gate  every  hour,  to  make  believe  somebody  was  com- 
ing. There,  I hear  Judith  down  stairs.) 

“Come  right  up  here,  Judith,  into  my  ‘little  white 
chamber  of  bliss.’  O,  how  pretty  you  are,  dear ! — I 
mean  when  the  color  flies  into  your  face.  Do  you  think 
you’ll  ever  be  married  ? ” 

“ Why,  Marian  Prescott,  what  a funny  question ! 
How  can  I tell  ? ” 

“ Yes,  it  is  funny ; but  you  can’t  guess  what  I was 
thinking,  just  this  minute,  about  you  and  Keller!  O, 
ever  and  ever  so  many  years  by  and  by ! Perhaps  you 
could  make  a man  of  him.  Don’t  you  think  he’s  hand- 
some ? Keedn’t  curl  your  lip  so,  Judith.  I don’t  mean 
any  harm.” 

“Was  I curling  my  lip?  Keller  is  very  handsome, 
and  I think  a great  deal  of  you.,  but  I — I — It  doesn’t 
* hurt  your  feelings  to  have  me  speak  out  &o  plainly  — 


A GREAT  SURPRISE. 


47 


does  it  ? ” said  Judith,  in  all  seriousness ; ‘‘  but  I — I — 
don’t  think  I shall  ever  marry  ” 

“ O,  it’s  just  as  well,”  returned  Marian,  with  some 
coldness,  ‘‘just  as  well;  you  needn’t  apologize.” 

And,  having  made  her  friend  an  offer  of  marriage  by 
proxy,  and  been  flatly  rejected.  Miss  Prescott  began  to 
toss  over  the  ribbons  in  her  collar-box  with  unnecessary 
vigor. 

It  was  as  if  two  young  nestlings  in  a tree  had  had  a 
slight  disagreement  regarding  a worm  a mile  out  of 
reach.  Neither  of  the  young  misses  thought  of  smiling 
at  the  simplicity  of  Judith  in  “refusing  before  she  was 
asked.” 

But  it  was  rather  odd  that,  for  the  first  time  in  their 
lives,  they  should  happen  to  be  disposing  of  Keller  on 
this  particular  evening,  while  at  the  same  moment  there 
was  a great  excitement  about  him  down  stairs. 

Dr.  Prescott  had  come  in  with  the  mail,  and  handed 
his  wife  a letter  from  Keller,  postmarked  Exeter.  Miss 
O’Neil  was  present,  but  happily  did  not  observe  that 
Mrs.  Prescott,  as  she  opened  the  letter,  turned  deathly 
pale,  and  sank  back  in  her  chair  with  a smothered  groan. 

“Well,  what  does  the  boy  say?”  asked  the  doctor, 
paring  a Baldwin,  and  throwing  the  skin  into  the  fire. 
Mrs.  Prescott  commanded  her  voice  *to  reply, — 

“ I infer  that  he  is  well ; he  says  very  little.” 

“ I hope  he’ll  see  the  error  of  his  ways,  and  turn  while 
yet  the  lamp  holds  out  to  burn ! ” exclaimed  Miss 
O’Neil,  adding,  piously,  “Do  good  in  thy  good  pleasure 
unto  Zion  ; build  thou  the  walls  of  Jerusalem.” 

Miss  O’Neil  was  fond' of  quoting  Scripture,  especially 
in  case  of  people  she  did  not  like.  Whether  it  suited 


48 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


the  occasion  or  not  made  no  difference ; it  always  had 
a “ solemnizing  effect.” 

In  a little  while  Mrs.  Prescott  rose,  touched  her  hus- 
band’s sleeve  with  her  finger,  then  passed  out  of  the 
room ; and  he  presently  followed. 

An  indefinite  dreadful  something  had  passed  over 
the  doctor  before  he  returned.  Pauline  trembled, 
though  without  knowing  why,  when  he  filled  Miss 
O’Neil’s  “contribution-bag”  with  apples,  and  very  po- 
litely requested  her  to  go  home,  as  Mrs.  Prescott  was 
taken  suddenly  ill,  and  their  must  be  perfect  quiet 
throughout  the  house. 

Half  an  hour  after,  Marian  and  Judith  were  electri- 
fied by  Pauline’s  rushing  wildly  into  the  chamber, 
whispering,  with*  chattering  teeth,  “ Girls^  Keller  is 
married!  ” 


THE  VALLET  OF  WORMWOOD. 


49 


CHAPTER  VI. 


‘‘the  valley  of  wormwood.” 

?)ARRIED  ! ” cried  Marian,  seizing  her  sister’s 
arm,  and  crushing  it  convulsively.  “Not 
our  Keller!  ” 

“Not  our  Keller!”  echoed  Judith,  dreamily. 
“ What  Keller  ? Who’s  married  ? ” 

Pauline  answered  by  throwing  some  dainty  wedding- 
cards  on  the  floor,  and  bursting  into  tears. 

“I  can’t  understand  you,  the  room  whirls  so,” 
moaned  Marian.  “Was  it  in  the  school-house?  Who 
did  it?  Little  boys  like  Keller  — ’tisn’t  2)ossible!” 
Judith  took  uj)  the  cards,  tied  together  witli  white 
taste. 

“ Brownie  Snow,”  read  she. 

“Yes,  I know.  Brownie,  Brownie,  Brownie,  has 
been  every  other  Avord  in  his  letters  all  the  term.  Still 
we  never  thought  — O,  Judith  ! ” 

With  ready  sympathy  Judith  threAV  both  her  arms 
around  her  friend,  and  said,  soothingly, — 

“Never  mind  it,  dear.  I read  once  of  a boy  who 
was  married  at  sixteen,  and  greAv  uj)  a respectable 
man.  Think  how  much  Avorse  it  might  have  been. 
Suppose,  now,  Keller  had  burnt  uj)  his  Prex’s  wig,  and 
been  expelled.” 

4 


50 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘Yes,  yes,  that  would  have  been  worse.  But  I tell 
you,  I won’t  bear  it ! ” cried  Marian,  wildly.  “ Think 
of  a little  girl  coming  here  to  go  to  school  with  me 
that  I’ll  have  to  introduce  as,  ‘My  sister,  Mrs.  Pres- 
cott’! Short  dresses!  Outrageous!  Let  me  go, 
Judith.” 

Pauline  laughed  hysterically. 

How  little  these  girls  knew  of  what  they  were  talk- 
ing about!  How  faintly  they  could  comj3rehend  the 
lifelong  sorrow  which  had  fallen  upon  two  devoted 
parents ! 

“ Marian,  where  are  you  going  ? No,  not  now.  You 
must  not  see  mother  to-night.  She  is  dreadfully  pros- 
trated ; I had  to  put  her  to  bed.” 

“ There,  Pauline,  how  could  you,  when  I might  have 
been  a comfort  to  mother!  O,  dear,  it  all  comes  of 
dime  novels ! ” 

“ Don’t  scream  so,  Marian.  What  do  you  mean  by 
dime  novels  ? ” 

“He  had  his  shelf  piled  with  them  years  and  years 
ago.  ‘I  tell  you  what  it  is,  they’re  neat^  said  he. 
‘ Hunters,  and  robbers,  and  runaway  brides.’  He 
knew  my  father  would  never  allow  such  things  in  the 
house.  I told  him  if  I saw  another,  I’d  burn  it  up. 
He  didn’t  take  it  kindly  — not  as  he  would  from  you, 
Pauline.  I s|3oke  very  gently;  but  I never  saw  an- 
other dime  novel.  But  he  must  have  had  them.  O, 
dear,  if  I’d  told  — ” 

“ Marian,  hear  me  a moment,  and  stop  screaming. 
You  are  not  to  mention  Keller’s  name  before  mother. 
It  was  only  on  that  condition  that  father  allowed  me 
to  tell  you.” 


THE  VALLEY  OF  WORMWOOD, 


51 


“ Did  my  father  think  I couldn’t  be  trusted  ? Why, 
Pauline,  when  I’m  so  tender  of  mother ! ” 

“ And  of  course  this  affair  is  not  to  be  known  in  the 
village  at  present.  We  are  sure  of  you,  Judith;  and 
as  for  Marian,  her  pride  will  keep  her  silent.  Father 
is  going  to  Exeter  to-morrow  to  bring  them  — to  bring 
him  home.  And  I’ve  sent  for  aunt  Filura ; for  w'hen 
mother  has  these  shivering  attacks,  I feel  safer  with 
her  in  the  house.  There,  good  night,  girls,”  said  Pau- 
line, suddenly  breaking  down.  “My  poor,  rash  boy, 
if  you  had  only  died ! ” 

The  house  was  very  still  next  day.  Dr.  Prescott 
had  gone  to  Exeter.  Thankful,  usually  known  as 
Widow  Works,  was  ironing  in  list  slippers;  Pauline 
rolling  crackers  for  gruel,  with  the  pantry  door  shut; 
and  Marian,  in  her  mother’s  room,  holding  the  dear 
invalid’s  hand,  and  reading  softly  some  of  the  most 
soothing  parts  of  the  Gospel  of  St.  John.  The  little  girl 
felt  safer  so.  Her  tongue,  being  harnessed  and  kept  in 
check,  could  not  leap  over  barriers,  and  go  trampling 
on  forbidden  ground. 

Cousin  Filura  Wix  had  come,  and  was  seated  before 
the  fire  in  the  sitting-room,  pegging  a mitten  with  a 
whalebone  hook.  The  front  breadth  of  her  dress  was  fold- 
ed back  over  her  knees,  disclosing  a quilted  black  skirt, 
and  the  toes  of  a pair  of  gray  kerseymere  shoes.  No 
matter  what  the  time  or  place,  never  since  she  could  dis- 
tinguish right  from  wrong  had  Miss  Wix  been  guilty  of 
the  wilful  extravagance  of  fading  her  gown  by  an  open 
blaze.  Upon  the  fire-frame,  at  a safe  distance  from  the 
hot  centre,  stood  her  gay  striped  socks,  drying  their 
hat  soles ; for  with  a strange  inconsistency  Miss  Wix 


52 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


clothed  her  feet  in  all  the  gorgeousness  of  Solomon’s 
lilies,  while  her  head  went  mourning  in  a black  cap. 

“O,  my!  Aren’t  they  bouncers  ?”  said  Benjie,  fin- 
gering admiringly  the  cat’s-fur  border  of  the  socks. 

‘‘Yes,  dear,”  said  Miss  Wix,  looking  up  with  a placid 
smile,  “ the  Lord  has  given  me  large  feet,  and  I don’t 
mean  to  pinch  ’em.  Socks  are  most  an  excellent  thing 
in  a petticoat  snow;  but  I’m  jealous  I’ve  got  some  cold, 
after  all,  for  my  head  feels  tight.” 

Miss  Wix  took  out  her  handkerchief  It  was  one  of 
her  peculiarities  that  she  always  blew  her  nose  as  if  it 
belonged  to  an  enemy.  It  was  not  alone  the  vehe- 
mence of  the  action ; there  was  besides  a strange  awk- 
wardness about  it,  as  though  it  were  a first  experiment. 
Benjie  watched  her  in  interested  silence. 

“Aunt  Filura,”  said  Marian,  appearing  at  the  door, 
“ I’ve  read  mother  fast  asleep.” 

“Then,  Benjamin,  wouldn’t  it- be  advisable  for  you 
to  go  out  doors  and  play?” 

“No;  I’m  afraid  I’ll  ’sturb  mamma,  stayin’  round 
here ; guess  I’ll  go  see  Hen  Page,”  said  Benjie,  with 
a roguish  side-glance  at  Miss  Wix,  who  jDeered  back  at 
him  in  perplexity. 

“It  wouldn’t  do  for  me  to  take  such  a resi^onsibility,” 
said  she,  after  some  reflection.  “You  must  not  go  vis- 
iting without  the  full  consent  of  your  sister  Paulina.” 
(Paulina  with  a long  ‘ i.’) 

Benjie  skipped  away,  smiling  half  sarcastically,  as 
such  young  creatures  will,  when  they  find  themselves 
a puzzle  or  an  embarrassment  to  their  betters.  Miss 
Wix  had  very  little  “faculty  with  children.”  Benjie 
had  the  impression  that  her  caresses  were  made  up  of 


THE  VALLE r OF  WORMWOOD. 


53 


elbows  and  Roman  nose ; and,  though  he  respected 
her  intensely,  he  was  by  no  means  fond  of  her.  Mar- 
ian, as  she  grew  older,  was  learning  to  value  the  good 
woman  at  something  like  her  true  worth.  That  “ my 
father”  called  her  “one  of  Nature’s  noblewomen”  had 
great  weight  with  her. 

“ Aunt  Filura,”  said  she,  — Miss  Wix  was  Dr.  Pres- 
cott’s cousin  and  stanch  friend,  and  usually  called 
aunt  by  the  children,  — “why  do  you  suppose  this 
dreadful  trial  was  sent  upon  us?  You  know,  if  any- 
body does,  and  I wish  you’d  tell.” 

Miss  Wix  looked  up  from  her  j:)egging  with  a peace- 
ful smile. 

“You’ve  asked  me  a pretty  snug  question,  Mary 
Ann. — Don’t  sprawl  down  on  the  rug  so. — It  isn’t  for 
us  to  map  out  the  Lord’s  designs ; but  there’s  good  to 
come  out  of  them,  you  may  depend  on  that.” 

“Yes,  so  I’ve  heard  ever  since  I was  born.  But 
when  I see  poor  mamma  so  white  and  weak,  and  my 
father  with  his  lips  set  together,  — O,  auntie,  what 
right  had  Keller,  a silly  boy,  to  behave  so  ? And  we 
supposing  he  was  learning  his  lessons ! To  think  God 
should  allow  — ” 

“Hush,  Mary  Ann;  stop  right  there.  You  may  ex- 
press your  mind  about  Keller;  I suppose  that’s  nat- 
ural ; and  I won’t  deny  but  what  he’s  played  the  fool ; 
but  don’t  you  go  to  mixing  it  up  with  insinuations 
against  your  heavenly  Father.  If  Keller  had  asked  to 
be  led  in  the  right  way,  do  you  expect  he’d  have  got 
into  this  scrape  ? ” 

“No;  O,  no!  But  I was  wondering,”  said  Marian, 


54 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


timidly,  “why  God  should  let  mother  suffer  so. 
Couldn’t  he  have  prevented  Keller’s  marrying?” 
“Certainly,  child.  He  could  have  made  Keller  a 
machine,  and  then  turned  him  with  a crank,  But  he 
chose  to  make  him  a human  being,  knowing  right  from 
wrong.  Have  you  anything  to  say  against  that?  Do 
you  wish  we  were  puppets,  Mary  Ann  ? ” 

“ N o,  auntie ; but  — ” 

“Nor  I don’t,  either.  I’m  thankful  for  the  gift  of 
free  will,  though  it  is  a fearful  privilege,  and  I make  a 
curious  bungle  of  it  every  day  I live.  For  you  see,” 
added  Miss  Wix,  her  face  glowing  with  an  inner  light, 
“ there’s  this  comfort : Let  us  bungle  as  we  will,  or  our 
friends  either,  there  is  the  Lord  right  behind  it,  turning 
it  to  some  good  use.  Trust  him,  Mary  Ann.  He’ll 
bring  a blessing  out  of  this.” 

“ O,  auntie,  I don’t  seem  to  feel  acquainted  with  Him, 
as  you  do,”  said  Marian,  wistfully. 

“ Then  it’s  high  time  you  did,”  said  Miss  Wix,  at- 
tempting to  stroke  Marian’s  bright  hair,  but  thinking 
better  of  it,  and  picking  up  a stitch  with  her  pegging- 
hook.  “ Put  your  arms  right  round  his  neck,  child,  and 
call  him  Father  — that’s  all  he  asks  of  you.” 

Marian  looked  iq)  at  the  serene  old  face  reverently. 
How  lovely  it  was,  transfigured  by  such  a beauty  of 
expression ! 

“ I want  to  ask  you,”  said  Marian,  after  a pause, 
“ what  you  suppose  my  father  intends  to  do  with 
Keller.” 

“Fetch  him  home,  and  set  him  at  work  on  that 
heater  piece  he  bought  last  fall.” 

“ But  the  - — the  girl  ? ” 


THE  VALLE r OF  WORMWOOD. 


55 


“Well,  it’s  likely  her  mother,  if  she’s  got  one,  will 
take  care  of  her  for  the  present.” 

“ Then  you  don’t  think  my  father’ll  bring  her  to  this 
house  ? Pauline  didn’t  know.  O,  what  a relief!  ” 

“ Thankful,”  whispered  Marian,  stealing  into  the 
kitchen,  “ don’t  look  so  glum.  Cousin  Wix  thinks  my 
father  won’t  bring  her  home.” 

“I  never  took  your  father  for  a fool,”  responded 
Widow  Works,  scraping  a kettle  with  subdued  wrath. 
“He’d  ought  to  put  ’em  both  in  the  lunatic  asylum, 
and  I hope  he’ll  be  stren-oo-ous  enough  to  do  it.” 
The  words  were  sharp,  but  their  edge  was  rather 
dulled  by  a falling  tear. 

“Keller  is  as  good-heaited  a boy  as  ever  lived,” 
went  on  the  drunkard’s  widow,  in  the  sweet,  even 
tones  which  never  failed  her  in  her  deepest  anger, 
“ and  I feel  very  homely  towards  the  folks  that  have 
made  a fool  of  him.” 

“I  don’t  know  what  you  mean.  Thankful,”  said 
Pauline,  who  stood  by  the  table,  bathing  her  swollen 
eyes  in  cold  tea. 

“Well,  in  plain  words,  I mean  the  girl’s  mother. 
Not  that  I ever  set  eyes  on  the  woman;  but  Pve 
heard  of  just  such  a case,  and  you  see  ’f  I ain’t  right 
about  it.  We’d  ought  to  be  resigned  to  what  the 
Lord  sends  upon  us,”  continued  Widow  Works,  some- 
what bitterly ; “ but  that  don’t  prevent  us  from  hating 
the  instrument.” 

“I  wish  Thankful  wouldn’t  talk  religion,”  thought 
Marian.  “It  isn’t  the  real  thing,  I know  by  the 
snapping  of  her  eyes.  A woman  that  hated  her 
husband  too,  and  can’t  forgive  him  now  he’s  dead.” 


56 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

BROWNIE  SNOW. 

Miss  Tottenham. 

t March  7. 

T was  very  strange.  Keller  has  startled  us  many 
times  before,  but  never  like  this.  Father  went 
to  Exeter  to  bring  him  home.  O,  how  I hated 
the  instrument,  as  Thankful  says,  whoever  it  was. 

In  the  first  place  I wanted  to  make  a fire  in  my 
room,  and  stay  there,  and  not  see  Keller.  But  Pau- 
line said,  “Ko;  what  good  would  that  do?  Sinners  get 
j)unished  in  other  ways ; it’s  not  for  us  to  try  to  pun- 
ish them.”  She  put  on  her  crimson  dress,  which  Rob- 
ert Willard  says  makes  her  look  like  a winter  rose. 
How  she  loves  that  boy ! I mean  Keller.  Partly  be- 
cause he  is  not  expected  to  take  care  of  his  room.  If 
he  was  expected  to,  wouldn’t  there  be  short-comings? 

I came  up  here  and  locked  my  door.  I felt  out- 
raged. Why  should  that  naughty  boy  trample  on  us 
so,  and  ruin  my  father,  who  had  hard  work  to  get 
money  to  send  him  to  school  ? I didn’t  feel  any  more 
affection  for  him  than  I did  for  that  stove.  I was  all 
out  of  sorts  to  think  things  had  gone  so  hap-hazard, 
till  I remembered  what  blessed  aunt  Wix  said  about 
God’s  being  behind  it ; and  then  I did  try  as  hard  as 


' ■ yn'i?  •’• 

/ej  - .!.6,y.  ■ 

it:  Vij'^k  ?'-:^k  .'’ 


& 


yi 


0m 


THE  DOCTOR  AND  MISS  O’NEIL.  Page  57. 


BROWNIE  SNOW. 


57 


I could  to  “ put  my  arms  around  his  neck  and  call  him 
Father.”  Somehow,  after  that,  I began  to  love  Keller 
again,  and  make  excuses  for  him.  “Feather-brained 
he  came  into  the  world,”  thought  I,  “and  feather- 
brained he’ll  go  out  of  it.”  I do  pity  him,  for  all  Pau- 
line thinks  I’m  just  such  another!  If  he  must  always 
be  troubling  our  parents,  and  tearing  open  their  hearts, 
let  me  be  the  one  to  pour  in  the  oil  and  wine.  Per- 
haps I was  born  for  that  very  purpose. 

At  any  rate,  I concluded  to  put  on  my  blue  merino, 
as  wearing  my  worst  clothes  wouldn’t  stop  the  mar- 
riage now ; and  I went  down  and  carried  mother  her 
toast  with  a smile.  She  kissed  me,  and  called  me  “ a 
comfort”  I found  afterwards  she  had  been  afraid  I 
should  prove  a trial.  They  all  seem  to  watch  me,  as 
if  I were  the  weather. 

Benjie  was  rather  noisy,  and  I took  him  to  the  bay- 
window,  and  let  him  look  out  at  the  far-off  blue  moun- 
tains fading  into  the  sky ; when,  before  we  thought  of 
such  a thing,  the  stage  drove  up,  and  out  stepped  my 
father  in  a great  hurry.  No  Keller. 

“Well,  girls,  how  is  your  mother?”  said  he.  He 
would  ask  that  if  the  house  was  afire.  I had  my  arms 
round  him,  and  was  just  going  to  find  out  where  Kel- 
ler was,  when  there  stood  Miss  O’Keil,  bubbling  all 
over  with  curiosity.  It  seemed  as  if  her  eyes  would 
drop  off  her  face  — they’re  only  stuck  on  the  outside. 

“Where’s  the  bride.  Dr.  Linscott?  I never  knew 
’twas  a mixed  school  before.  Foolish  Galathian^  he 
wouldn’t  be  thought  anything  of  at  Machias.” 

Pauline  turned  to  me  with  a frown.  As  if  I had 
told ! I,  who  am  as  deep  as  a well ! 


58 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


“ As  near  as  I can  make  out,”  said  the  tiresome  old 
thing,  ‘‘  I was  the  only  one  he  sent  a wedding  card  to. 
So  I thought  I’d  be  the  first  to  call  on  the  bride.” 

There!  Pauling  knew  then  who  had  told!  It  was 
Keller  himself.  The  news  was  going  all  over  the  vil- 
lage like  wildfire.  While  Miss  O’Neil  stood  swinging 
her  door-key  on  her  finger,  in  walked  mother,  trem- 
bling like  a white  lily  in  a breeze ; and  my  father  ran 
and  caught  her  right  up  in  his  arms,  and  laid  her  on 
the  sofa. 

‘‘  Let  us  have  quiet  here,”  said  he,  sternly.  “ Every 
soul  of  you,  go  into  the  dining-room,  and  wait  there  for 
me.” 

We  went.  Miss  Soai^suds  too,  with  her  falsest  black 
front  and  best  bonnet.  How  I wanted  to  cut  her  in 
pieces  with  my  tongue ! If  I were  she,  I’d  be  Paul 
Pry,  and  done  with  it.  Cousin  Filura  was  in  the 
kitchen,  pegging  a mitten : she^d  never  think  of  intrud- 
ing at  such  a time. 

‘‘Now,”  said  my  father,  when  he  came  into  the. din- 
ing-room, all  smiles,  — how  could  he  smile? — “give  me 
a cup  of  tea,  and  I’ll  tell  you  a story.” 

Then  he  said  he  went  to  Keller’s  boarding-house, 
but  the  landlady  didn’t  know  where  Keller  was ; he 
had  left  the  week  before.  So  my  father  went  to  the 
school-buildings,  and  after  a while  Keller  came  to  the 
door,  looking  rather  scared. 

“Young  man,”  said  my  father,  “I’ve  come  to  look 
into  your  conduct.  We  received  an  extraordinary  doc- 
ument from  you.  Where’s  your  wife,  you  wretched 
boy  ? ” 

Keller  turned  very  pale,  but  at  last  said,  if  my  father 


BROWNIE  SNOW. 


59 


would  go  to  such  a street  and  such  a number,  he’d 
show  her  to  him. 

When  they  got  to  the  right  place,  and  went  in, 
they  saw  Charlie  Snow  sitting  with  his  leg  on  a 
cushion.  Charlie  is  one  of  our  Quinnebasset  boys, 
lamed  for  life  by  a base-ball. 

Allow  me  to  introduce  my  wife,  sir,”  said  Keller, 
trying  to  laugh. 

Till  then  he  had  thought  this  was  a great  joke. 
They  had  borrowed  a little  printing  jDress,  and  struck 
off  the  wedding  cards,  just  for  fun. 

“Fun!”  said  my  father;  “the  ridiculous  young 
noddies ! ” 

But  they  were  so  frightened  and  ashamed,  when 
they  heard  what  mischief  it  had  made  1 

Keller  has  had  the  care  of  poor  Charlie  ever  since 
they  went  to  Exeter,  though  we  didn’t  know  it,  and 
called  him  “little  wife.”  Charlie’s  middle  name  is 
Brown ; and  Brownie,  as  it  is  now,  couldn’t  afford  to 
pay  his  board ; so  Keller  thought  they’d  try  and  see  if 
they  could  get  along  cheaper  to  hire  a room  and  cook 
their  own  food.  Keller  had  it  all  to  do,  of  course,  and 
it  was  quite  a sacrifice.  My  father  said  it  was  the 
most  beautiful  thing  the  boy  ever  attempted,  and 
quite  touching.  The  reason'  of  his  not  writing  us 
about  it  was,  that  he  was  afraid  mother  would  object 
to  his  trying  to  cook,  and  think  he  wasn’t  comfortable. 

So  thoughtful  of  his  mother,  the  cruel  creature! 
W ell,  if  that  isn’t  just  like  a boy ! Pat  you  with  one 
hand,  and  pinch  you  with  the  other ! 

My  father  said  he  tried  his  best  to  scold ; but  those 


60 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


boys  were  so  broken  down,  and  Charlie  cried  so  hard, 
he  had  to  give  it  np. 

O,  isn’t  this  a hajDpy  family?  It  seems  as  if  the 
world  were  all  rainbows,  and  trouble  had  jDoured  itself 
into_a  hole  in  the  ground.  Mother  is  sitting  up,  hem- 
ming my  new  calico,  just  like  anybody.  Mr.  Loring  is 
in  the  parlor,  looking  as  pleased  as  the  rest  of  us ; but 
then,  as  Pauline  said  once,  “Little  girls  mustn’t  sur- 
mise.” 

Keller  isn’t  coming  home  to  work  on  the  “heater 
piece,”  and  I think  my  father  has  more  hope  of  him. 

God  is  very  good.  He  would  never  have  allowed 
Keller  to  behave  so.  I thought  it  didn’t  seem  pos- 
sible ! 


A DREAM  THAT  WAS  ALL  A DREAM.  61 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


A DEEAM  THAT  WAS  ALL  A DEEAM. 


{^)j^ISS  O’NEIL  went  directly  from  Dr.  Prescott’s 
to  the  Reading  Circle,  of  which  she  was  a 
self-invited  member.  They  were  all  talking 


about  Keller. 

‘‘  See  what  comes  of  bringing  up  children  by  the 
square  rule,”  said  Delia  Liscom,  who  had  been  brought 
up  in  a country  tavern,  by  no  rule  at  all. 

“Yes,”  said  Mrs.  Page,  the  hostess,  mother  of  a 
sharp-featured  youth,  dubbed  by  the  school-boys 
“ Picked  Evil,”  “ Dr.  Prescott  is  full  of  theories ; but 
here  is  his  son  behaving  even  worse  than  mine.” 

Tnen  all  the  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  began,  with 
one  accord,  to  throw  out  recollections  of  Keller’s  past 
misdeeds,  till  the  poor  boy  was  buried  deep  under  a 
mound  of  obloquy.  Miss  O’Neil,  coming  in  as  the  last 
shovelful  was  going  on,  was  rather  sorry  to  have  to  dig 
him  out.  She  thought  disgrace  a good  discipline  for 
anybody  — the  innocent  as  well  as  the  guilty;  and  Kel- 
ler had  never  been  a favorite  of  hers  since  his  bold  sur- 
mise that  she  “never  had  an  offer  in  her  life.” 

Still  she  was  very  glad  of  another  opportunity  to 
make  a sensation.  Yesterday  she  had  startled  the  people 
with  the  story,  that  “ Keller  Linscott  had  married  him 


62 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


a dancing  wife,  like  the  daughters  of  Benjamin.”  Now 
she  cried,  shaking  her  new  cap-strings,  the  color  of  win- 
ter butter,  ‘‘Keller  Linscott  is  going  straight  to  the 
gallows,  and  ought  to  be  hung  in  jeopardy.  He  isn’t 
married,  and  did  it  to  deceive  me,  the  foolish  Gala- 
thian,  without  2i' squeam  of  conscience!  But  I’ll  tell 
you  what  he  has  done ; he  has  set  up  housekeeping, 
and  is  trying  to  ruin  his  father!” 

When  the  truth  was  fairly  understood,  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  laughing;  and,  in  spite  of  Miss  O’Neil’s 
frown,  the  verdict  seemed  to  be  that  the  doctor’s  son 
was  not  such  a very  bad  boy,  after  all.  There  were  no 
more  misdeeds  related  of  him,  though  Mr.  Boring’s  en- 
trance would  have  prevented  that  at  any  rate,  he  being 
regarded  as  a particular  friend  of  Keller’s  family. 

This  Reading  Circle  was  a time-honored  institution 
of  Quinnebasset.  Marian  and  Judith,  having  some  lit- 
erary aspirations,  thought  they  ought  to  be  members ; 
but  no  one  ever  invited  them  to  join. 

“Troubled  with  youngness,”  said  Robert,  the  big 
brother  of  twenty,  looking  down  on  little  J udith  with 
fatherly  tenderness.  “Never  mind,  dear;  you’ll  out- 
grow it.” 

But  Judith  did  mind.  When  the  Circle  met  at  Dr. 
Prescott’s,  she  and  Marian  staid  in  the  room,  listening 
to  the  reading  of  Hyperion,  and  the  paper  called  the 
Salmagundi,  with  the  liveliest  interest.  What  hami 
could  they  do,  sitting  there  with  their  hands  crossed  ? 
Why  were  they  left  out,  when  they  had  such  a taste 
for  writing,  and  Marian’s  Essay  on  Cain  had  been  read 
in  the  Lyceum? 

There  was  Delia  Liscom,  who  never  wrote  at  all. 


A DREAM  THAT  WAS  ALL  A DREAM.  63 


Was  it  fair  that  she  should  go  there,  and  do  nothing  but 
smile,  and  ask  Mr.  Loring  to  hold  yarn  for  her  ? 

“ She  is  twenty-five,  and  has  outgrown  her  young- 
ness,” said  Marian^  with  biting  sarcasm.  “ When  we 
are  twenty-five,  Judith,  we  can  go  into  any  society, 
whether  we’re  ornaments  or  not.” 

The  very  next  day  Marian  was  ashamed  of  this 
speech,  for  she  saw  reason  to  think  Miss  Delia  a supe- 
rior being.  Thankful  Works  sent  her  to  Mrs.  Liscom’s 
for  some  sage,  and  Delia,  following  her  to  the  door, 
said,  graciously,  — 

“ How  is  your  dear  mother?  I hope  that  funny  joke 
of  Keller’s  didn’t  make  her  worse.  Do  you  and  Pau- 
line never  leave  her  alone?  Is  that  why  you  don’t 
join  our  circle,  Marian  ? Do  come  Thursday  night ; it 
meets  here.  And  please,  dear,  write  for  the  Salma- 
gundi. They  say  your  poetry  is  beautiful.” 

‘‘No,  indeed.  Miss  Liscom,”  said  the  blushing  Mar- 
ian, looking  up  at  the  sign-post,  a sort  of  swinging  grave- 
stone, in  honor  of  Delia’s  grandfather;  “it  is  Judith 
who  makes  rhymes.” 

“Ah,  you  say  that  because  you’re  so  modest!  Well, 
you  and  Judith  put  your  bright  heads  together,  and 
bring  me  a poem,  there’s  a pair  of  darlings.” 

Hadn’t  the  girls  reason  to  consider  Miss  Delia  a per- 
son of  discernment  ? W ouldn't  they  write  for  her  the 
very  choicest  thoughts  of  their  brains  ? 

J udith  gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  she  had  channing 
manners,  and  people  were  wrong  who  thought  she 
asked  Mr.  Loring  to  hold  yarn  for  her  any  oftener  than 
was  absolutely  necessary. 


64 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


“ It’s  not  worth  while  her  being  very  polite  to  Mr. 
Loring,”  said  Marian,  with  a shrewd  smile. 

Judith  looked  up  inquiringly. 

“Well,  there,  Judith,  your  eyes  are  more  brilliant 
than  mine ; but  what  good  do  they  do  ? ” 

“ Why,  you  don’t  mean  Pauline?” 

“No,  I don’t  mean  anything.  My  elder  sister  says 
little  girls  ‘mustn’t  surmise.’  But  I dreamed  last 
night  that  those  wedding  cards  were  printed  over 
again,  with  her  name  and  Mr.  Boring’s.  And  it  was 
so  droll,  Judith!  I saw  her  go  away  in  a white  satin 
dress,  with  red  stockings,  but  never  shed  a tear ! 
‘Well,’  thought  I,  ‘Now  I can  let  my  room  and  my 
clothes  go  to  destruction,  and  no  Pauline  to  molest  or 
make  me  afraid.’  ” 

“Why  wouldn’t  that  make  a good  poem?”  said 
Judith,  thoughtfully. 

‘‘  While  sweetly  sleeping  yesternight, 

I saw  my  sister  dressed  in  white.” 

“ Capital ! Only  bring  in  satin  and  roses.  Let 
me  get  my  slate.  What,  have  you  thought  of  more  so 
soon  ? ” 

‘‘  A satin  dress  of  costly  kind, 

With  rosy  wreath  and  pearl  entwined.” 

“Judith,  you  are  a genius.  How  Pauline  will 
laugh  when  she  hears  herself  described ! What  of 
this  ? — 

“ So  beautifully  fair  she  seemed, 

I thought  it  must  be  then  I dreamed ! ” 

Is  that  too  sarcastic,  Judith?  Pauline  is  so  dark  she’d 
look  shockingly  in  white  satin.” 


A DREAM  THAT  PFAS  ALL  A DREAM.  65 


“O,  well,  Marian,  this  is  all  a joke.  Your  rhyme 
does  pretty  well ; but  can’t  you  help  counting  on  your 
fingers  ? Give  me  the  pencil,  please. 

“ She  stood  not  alone  with  blushing  mien, 

For  by  her  side  a youth  was  seen.  ” 

“But  is  Mr.  Loring  a youth?”  queried  Marian. 
“ He’s  as  much  as  twenty-five.” 

“ Poetical  license,  child.  ‘Young  man’  would  spoil 
the  metre.” 

“ Quick ! I’ve  thought  of  something ! ” cried  Marian, 
seizing  the  pencil. 

“ His  well-marked  face  had  a piercing  look, 

And  O,  a nose  with  an  eagle  hook.” 

“ Why,  Marian,  everybody  will  know  him  in  a min- 
ute. That  mark  on  his  face.” 

“Well,  all  the  better.  Where  would  be  the  sport  if 
’twas  only  a fancy  sketch.  What’s  your  next  line, 
Judith?” 

‘‘  He  gazed  with  pride  on  his  lady  fair  — ” 

“Now  wait,  Jude;  I’ll  draw  another  portrait. 

“ Whose  forehead  low  and  dark-brown  hair  — ” 

“ Why,  Marian ! ” 

Taking  the  slate  from  her  friend,  Judith  added, — 

‘‘Were  garlanded  with  leaves  of  green, 

And  breathed  of  rose  and  aubepine.” 

“ Why,  Judith,  you  dressed  the  bride  once.  Why  do 
you  do  it  again?  What  in  the  world  is  aubepine?” 

“ French  for  hawthorn.  I happened  to  see  it  in  the 
dictionary.  Don’t  know  as  there’s  any  smell  to  it, 
though. 


5 


66 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


“ The  words  were  said  which  bind  for  aye, 

Tlie  lawyer  bore  his  bride  away.” 

“ There,  Judith,  you’ve  married  them ; now  it’s  my 
turn.  How  we’ll  make  everybody  laugh ! 

Ah,  such  a change  within  our  house, 

Down  to  our  cat,  that  loves  a mouse ! 

Yes,  pussy  felt  the  alteration 
To  be  a great  amelioration. 

No  one  to  box  her  ears,  or  tread 
Upon  her  tail ; no,  none  to  dread. 

And  cobwebs  lingered  like  a brother. 

Unspied  by  the  failing  eyes  of  mother.” 

Why,  Marian ! ” 

“ Don’t  interrupt.  No  one  will  take  this  in  earnest. 

And  O,  the  cake-board  in  disgrace. 

With  dried-up  dough  upon  her  face.” 

“ There,  Marian  Prescott,  you  really  must  stop  ! I 
cannot  consent  to  such  vulgarity.  You  might  express 
it  thus : — 

“ And  Neatness  sighed,  and  pined  away.” 

“Very  well,”  said  the  incorrigible  Marian,  adding, — 

“ But  Peace  smiled  on  us  every  day. 

And  we  were  happy  in  our  home; 

So  glad  no  lawyer’s  wife  would  come 
To  scour  tlie  paint  with  nimble  fingers, 

Yet  scold  her  sister  when  she  lingers.” 

“ Scouring  paint ! Give  me  that  pencil,  Marian.  I 
don’t  mind  your  being  ironical,  for  I suppose  Pauline 
can  take  a joke;  but  do  let  us  have  more  refinement, 
and  come  out  of  the  kitchen. 


A DREAM  THAT  WAS  ALL  A DREAM.  67 


“ But  all ! I dreamed,  too  soon  awaking, 

To  find  tlie  vision  slowly  breaking. 

To  know  that  bright  as  life  then  seemed, 

’Twas  all  illusion,  for  I dreamed.” 

“ There,  Judith,  you’ve  wound  that  off  gloriously.  I 
confess  your  thoughts  are  loftier  than  mine.  Now  for 
a signature.  I’ve  been  thinking  of  Kaween,  out  of 
Hiawatha,  which  means,  ‘No,  indeed.’  You  see  the  ob- 
ject, Judith?  Everybody  will  be  on  the  qui  vive  about 
this  poem,  and  when  we  are  asked  if  we  know  who 
wrote  it,  we  can  answer,  ‘ No,  indeed.’” 

“Yes,  yes,  I see.  ‘No,  indeed,’  wrote  it.” 

“ I hope  that  wouldn’t  be  a lie,”  said  Marian,  doubt- 
fully. “ What  think  ? ” 

“ No,  only  a subterfuge,  which  an  author  has  a per- 
fect right  to  use,”  returned  Judith,  beginning  to  copy 
with  Marian’s  violet  ink. 

Delia  Liscom  seized  upon  the  poem  with  avidity. 
She  had  just  enough  envy  in  her  narrow  soul  to  feel 
some  pleasure  in  holding  up  the  jDopular  and  well-be- 
loved Pauline  to  ridicule. 

Marian  and  Judith  went  to  the  Circle  the  next 
Thursday  night  with  fluttering  hearts,  Marian  wearing 
a blue  merino,  which  buttoned  at  the  back,  and  hardly 
reached  down  to  the  tops  of  her  boots.  Would  the 
time  ever  come  when  she  might  wear  a long  dress  ? 
Should  she  ever  put  a wrought  collar  on  her  neck,  and 
not  hear  Pauline  say,  “ A standing  ruffle  is  more  sim- 
ple for  a child  ” ? Marian  did  not  call  herself  a child, 
and  had  no  desire  to  be  simple. 

While  Delia  Liscom  was  reading  the  “ Salmagundi,” 
she  and  Judith  sat  in  the  corner,  looking  intently  at 


68 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER, 


the  striped  yarn  carpet,  which  had  the  effect  of  rain- 
bows straightened  into  line.  For  some  reason,  their 
Dream  had  a very  different  sound  when  read  before  a 
room  full  of  such  quiet  and  astonish ed-looking  people. 
Miss  Liscom  had  a singsong  tone,  and  sometimes  mis- 
called the  words,  and  had  to  go  over  them  a second 
time.  This  detracted  so  much  from  the  effect,  that 
Marian  was  afraid  the  audience  would  not  see  how 
witty  that  poem  really  was.  No  one  seemed  particu- 
larly amused,  though  at  the  close  there  was  a general 
rustle,  and  a little  laughing,  in  which  Mr.  Loring  faintly 
joined. 

Marian  timidly  looked  at  the  wall-paper,  with  its 
pictures  of  a lady  in  a high-topped  comb  smelling  a dry 
rose,  and  one  of  our  remote  forefathers  dancing  a reel ; 
thence  at  the  antique  chairs  and  brass-nailed  sofa, — 
till  she  came  to  Pauline,  sitting  not  far  from  Mr.  Lor- 
ing, and  looking  most  stiff  and  uncomfortable.  She 
wore  a smile,  it  is  true,  but  a very  unnatural  one,  which 
seemed  to  be  “ frozen  on.” 

“ She  doesn’t  know  how  to  take  a joke,”  thought 
Marian.  ‘‘I’m  really  afraid  her  feelings  are  wounded.” 

And  then,  with  sudden  force,  came  one  of  Marian’s 
afterthoughts.  Had  she  done  well  to  join  Pauline’s 
name  with  Mr.  Loring’s  in  such  a public  manner? 
What  right  had  she  to  suppose  they  were  engaged? 
Or,  even  if  they  were,  was  it  a delicate  and  fitting 
thing  for  a little  sister  to  parade  the  fact  before  the 
world  ? 

More  than  this,  the  playful  allusions  to  Pauline’s 
scolding,  — would  everybody  know  how  to  understand 
it  ? What  if  somebody,  given,  like  the  poetess  herself. 


A DREAM  THAT  WAS  ALL  A DREAM.  69 


to  “surmising,”  should  conclude  that  Pauline  was  a 
vixen  ? What  if  Mr.  Loring  should  conclude  so  too  ? 
O,  dear ! if  any  trouble  should  arise  between  him  and 
Pauline  on  account  of  that  miserable  Dream ! 

Pauline  gave  Miss  O’Neil  her  arm  that  night,  and 
politely  escorted  her  to  her  own  door.  Mr.  Loring 
went  home  alone.  What  did  that  mean  ? 

“ I always  knew  Delia  Liscom  was  a coarse-minded 
girl,”  said  Robert  to  the  two  friends,  as  he  walked  be- 
tween them ; “ but  I must  say,  I did  not  think  her  ca- 
pable of  reading  such  doggerel  as  that  in  her  own 
house.  Personal  articles  are  not  allowable  in  the  Sal- 
magundi. Have  you  any  idea  who  wrote  it?” 

“No,  indeed,”  said  Judith,  faintly. 


70 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AFTERTHOUGHTS. 


Miss  Tottenham 


March  20. 

^LESS  your  heart.  Miss  Tottenham  : you’re  get- 
^ solid  comfort.  It  is  so  j3leasant 
to  have  some  discreet  jDerson  to  speak  one’s 


mind  to ! 

I see  now  I was  over-persuaded  by  Delia  Liscom, 
or  I never  should  have  written  that  poem.  She  need 
not  have  read  it  aloud!  How  could  she  — in  her  own 
house  too  ? When  I am  as  old  as  she,  I ho|De  I shall 
have  more  discretion.  “ But  then,”  as  Robert  remarked. 
Miss  Lisconi  is  certainly  a coarse-minded  woman.” 

That  night  I thought  I would  go  directly  to  Pau- 
line, and  tell  her  the  whole  story.  She  had  got  home 
first,  and  was  rolling  her  hair  on  leads. 

“ O,  Pauline,”  said  I ; but  when  I saw  her  face,  I 
stopped.  She  is  very  seldom  angry  — never,  I believe, 
except  with  me;  but  now  her  eyes  were  coal-offire-y. 

“So  you  and  Judith  have  been  putting  your  heads 
together  to  dream  out  doggerel,”  said  she.  O,  I tell 
you,  she  has  temper  enough ! 

“You  take  a great  deal  for  granted,  Pauline;  what 
makes  you  think  it  was  Judith  and  I?” 


AFTER  THO  UGHTS, 


71 


“ Because  nobody  else  would  have  been  so  silly.” 

There,  wasn’t  that  cutting?  Do  you  wonder  the 
confession  died  on  my  tongue  ? 

“ Marian  Prescott,  you  had  no  right  to  hold  me  up 
to  ridicule.  What  has  your  sister  ever  said  or  done  to 
you  that  justifies  you  in  such  heartless  conduct?” 

You  see  how  seriously  she  took  it.  Miss  Tottenham, 
standing  there  facing  me  like  a judge.  I felt  like  a 
criminal,  and  a very  angry  one  too.  I went  to  the 
mantel,  and  began  to  strike  matches ; but  three  went 
out  before  I could  light  my  lamp.  Should  I deny 
or  confess  ? Denial  would  be  a lie,  unless  I translated 
or  nom  de  plume  ‘‘Kaween,”  and  said,  “No,  indeed;” 
and  she  had  not  asked  a direct  question  yet. 

“I  must  say,  Marian,  a girl  of  fourteen  might  have 
a little  sense.  You  are  always  doing  the  most  un- 
heard-of things ; just  after  that  nonsense  of  Keller’s 
too ! Why,  child,  we  shall  be  the  most  notorious 
family  in  town ! ” 

“ O,  yes ; but  you  don’t  blame  Keller ; you  only 
blame  me,  now  and  forever.  And  you  don’t  know  yet 
that  I wrote  the  poem.” 

“ But  you  did  write  it,  of  course  ? ” 

“No,  indeed ! ” 

There,  I had  said  it ; and  it  felt  exactly  like  a lie ! 

Pauline  started  back.  “ Why,  Marian,  you’re  not  in 
earnest!  How  queer  you  look!  I can’t  doubt  your 
word;  you  are  the  last  person  who  would  stoop  to 
deceive,  but  — ” 

Ah,  she  cut  me  then  worse  than  she  did  before ! 

“ I never  was  more  astonished  in  my  life.  Why,  if 


72 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


you  and  Judith  Willard  didn’t  write  that  jingle,  who 
did  ? Do  you  know?  ” 

“No,  indeed,,  Pauline!” 

Then  I took  my  lamj^  and  rushed  up  stairs,  leaving 
her  in  a perfect  puzzle.  The  first  thing  I did  was  to 
wash  my  mouth  with  Windsor  soap.  “ But  what  harm 
have  I done  ? ” said  I.  “ I’m  no  worse  than  Dickens ; 
he  called  himself  Boz;  and  who  ever  blamed  him  for 
that?” 

Still,  I felt  that  dreadful  consciousness  which  my 
father  says  is  the  true  test  of  guilt.  “ A lie  acts  on  the 
soul,”  he  says,  “ like  poison  on  the  body.”  I believe  it, 
for  I felt  corroded.  I looked  around  for  an  antidote ; 
but  all  I could  find  was  the  same  thing  right  over  and 
over : “ Twas  only  a subterfuge.  What’s  fair  for  Dick- 
ens is  fair  for  me.” 

And  in  that  way  I contrived  to  get  to  sleep. 

Well,  it  is  all  over  now,  and  Pauline  never  so  much 
as  alludes  to  the  Dream.  She  has  fallen  into  one  of 
her  “ sewing  rages,”  and  scarcely  speaks.  How  should 
I feel  to  have  her  know  that  the  Academy  girls,  who 
are  not  members  of  the  Reading  Circle,  have  those 
lines  by  heart,  and  that  Oscaforia  Jones  called  out 
to  me,  yesterday,  — 

‘‘  So  beautifully  fair  you  seem, 

I think  it  must  be  now  I dream ! ” 

Delia  Liscom  cannot  have  betrayed  us ! What  does 
she  think  of  her  word  ? 

March  30.  We  need  aunt  Filura  again.  There  is 
another  cloud  hanging  over  the  house.  This  time  it  is 
Pauline.  I don’t  mean  that  she  hangs  over  the  house, 


AFTER  THO  UGHTS. 


73 


but  sometliing  hangs  over  her.  I never  should  have 
thought  of  it,  if  Thankful  hadn’t  said,  in  a mysterious 
tone,  “ Ah,  well,  if  your  sister  knew  as  much  as  I do  of 
mankind,  she  wouldn’t  take  these  things  so  to  heart.” 

“ What  things  ? ” 

Thankful  eyed  me  through  those  brass  bows  of 
hers,  and  saw,  perhaps,  that  she  was  telling  me  some- 
thing new;  for  she  changed  the  subject  at  once,  and 
went  to  talking  about  the  “mysterious  dispensations 
of  marriage  and  death;”  about  Josiah’s  being  a 
“ drinking  man,”  and  leaving  her  “ a widow  so,  with 
not  much  of  anything  to  lay  her  hands  to,  for  he  willed 
away  the  property  to  his  folks.” 

I’ve  heard  the  story  so  often  that  I’m  rather  tired  of 
it.  But  what  she  means  about  Pauline  I can’t  ima- 
gine, and  I’m  determined  to  find  out.  I would  so  like 
to  talk  with  mother ! but  my  father  says  she  must  not 
be  agitated.  Since  Keller’s  joke  failed  to  destroy  her, 
he  hopes  we’ll  stop  experimenting. 

I am  in  the  sitting-room,  studying  my  geology  les- 
son, off  and  on,  by  the  German-student  lamp;  and 
mother  and  Pauline,  before  the  fire,  are  talking  about 
it’s  getting  too  late  in  the  season  for  buckwheat  cakes. 
Nothing  very  solemn  in  that;  and  I don’t  see,  for  my 
part,  but  Pauline  looks  lively  enough.  As  the  light 
falls  on  her  eyes,  they  are  a pansy-purple  mixed  with 
cinnamon-brown.  I could  envy  her  her  eyes ; but  such 
splendors  are  not  for  me ; I must  do  with  my  old 
gray.  Isn’t  it  hard  always  to  content  ourselves  with 
inferior  things,  when  we  know  what  is  so  much  better? 

Here  comes  my  father,  chilled  through  and  through. 
“Benjamin,  my  son,  put  my  boots  behind  the  kitchen 


74 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER. 


stove  to  dry,  and  bring  me  my  slippers.”  He  looks 
/rather  withering;  but  I know  that  look  is  for  Mrs. 
Page,  not  Benjie.  Pauline  wheels  his  big  arm-chair 
before  the  fire,  and  mother  hands  him  his  dressing- 
gown.  “ Poh,  poll ! I can  wait  on  myself,”  says  he ; 
but  he  smiles  at  mother  as  if  she  were  an  angel,  and 
had  brought  him  an  ascension  robe. 

“How  did  you  find  Mrs.  Page?”  said  I;  for  I knew 
he  wanted  a chance  to  scold. 

“Humph!  you  needn’t  hurry  up  her  epitaph,  my 
daughter;  if  that’s  what  you’re  doing!  I judge  her 
case  isn’t  critical.  I only  remarked  some  degree  of  in- 
flammation about  the  lachrymal  glands.” 

Just  then  Benjie  cried  out,  from  the  bay-window, 
“A  man  a drivin’  round  to  the  porch  door.” 

“ Another  case  of  spleen,  most  likely ! ” growled  my 
father.  “Bad  roads  and  stormy  weather  develop  the 
symptoms.” 

But  it  happened  this  time  that  a Mr.  Works,  of 
Poonoosac,  had  broken  his  skull  or  his  back-bone.  So, 
though  the  wind  howled  like  wolves,  my  father  hurried 
into  his  wet  boots,  harnessed  his  horse,  and  was  off 
before  Thankful  had  time  to  ask  if  the  patient  wasn’t 
“one  of  Josiah’s  folks,  that  lived  on  the  flat.” 

My  father  is  all  alive  in  a surgical  case ; but  as  for 
nervousness  — well,  he  doesn’t  think  anybody  has  a 
right  to  nerves  but  just  mother. 

There,  now  Pve  been  out  in  the  kitchen  talking  to 
Thankful.  “ Please  tell  me  this  minute,”  said  I,  “ what 
you  mean  by  ‘ these  things ! ’ ” 

“ O,  I was  only  speaking  in  a general  way  of  the 
fickleness  of  men,”  said  Thankful,  putting  on  another 


AFTER  THO  UGHTS. 


75 


cnpe.  She  wears  one  all  the  time,  and  two  when  she’s 
preparing  to  cry.  And  then  I had  to  hear  it  all  over 
again  — the  history  of  her  Wrongs.  My  father  calls  it 
“ Memoir  of  Josiah,  with  Epitaph  and  Appendix.”  I 
suppose  this  is  the  Appendix : “ I never  shall  marry 
again  ; no,  never ! I hate  the  Avhole  race  of  mankind ! ” 
I’m  glad  to  know  for  a dead  certainty  that  Thankful 
won’t  leave  us ; and  I can  generally  worry  through 
the  Memoir  for  the  sake  of  the  Appendix.  But  not 
now.  “ Thankful,”  said  I,  “ please  do  let  Josiah  rest  in 
his  grave,  and  answer  my  question.” 

Finally,  after  charging  me  over  and  over  ‘‘not  to 
let  this  go  from  Aer,”  she  told  me  “ the  story  was,  that 
the  engagement  was  broken  between  Pauline  and  Mr. 
Loring,  and  Delia  Liscom  was  somehow  to  blame.” 
“There,  if  Quinnebasset  isn’t  just  like  a glass  house 
to  live  in,”  said  I ; “ only  the  glass  is  smoked  this  time, 
and  they  don’t  see  straight.  Pauline  was  never  en- 
gaged, for  she  told  me  so  herself.  And  as  for  Mr. 
Boring’s  staying  away  from  here,  why  shouldn’t  he, 
when  they’ve  stopped  German?  You  needn’t  look  so 
wise.  Thankful  W orks ! She  wants  the  time  to  prac- 
tise ; and  haven’t  I heard  you  say  how  much  pleasanter 
it  makes  your  evenings  out  here  in  the  kitchen,  when 
you  can  hear  her  sing  and  play  ? ” 

If  there  is  anything  I dislike  in  Thankful,  it  is  her 
way  of  not  answering  you,  but  looking  as  if  she  held 
back  a whole  volume  behind  her  spectacles. 

I v/ish  she  had  not  made  me  so  uncomfortable. 
Can  it  be  that  I have  done  any  harm  ? — In  dreaming 
aloud,  for  instance  ? That  foolish  satire  cannot  have 
changed  Mr.  Boring’s  opinion  of  my  dear  sister.  No; 


76 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER. 


for  it  is  Pauline  herself  who  seems  to  wish  him  not  to 
come.  I supposed  she  was  tired  of  German.  The 
first  time  I met  him  at  the  door,  and  told  him  she  was 
out,  and  wouldn’t  be  home  till  nine  o’clock,  he 
looked  surprised,  and  I dare  say  thought  her  rather 
impolite.  He  called  three  times,  and  she  was  always 
out;  and  since  that  he  does  not  come  any  more.  I 
was  very  glad  of  it  till  now,  for  I thought  Pauline  was 
glad ; but  if  she  isn’t,  it  is  quite  another  thing.  That 
poisoned  feeling  comes  over  me  very  strongly.  Why 
didn’t  I tell  Pauline  the  simple,  silly  truth?  Then 
she  would  not  have  made  this  miserable  mistake.  I 
see  it  all  now,  and  might  have  foreseen  it.  She  sus- 
pects Mr.  Loring  himself  of  writing  that  poem.  What 
shall  I do  ? what  shall  I do  ? 


THANKFUUS  THIRDS. 


77 


CHAPTER  X. 


THANKFUL  S THIRDS. 

^HEX  Dr.  Prescott  returned  at  a late  hour 
from  Poonoosac,  he  found  Thankful  waiting 
up  for  him,  and  keeping  some  ginger  tea 
hot  upon  the  stove. 

“You  need  something  after  such  a hard  ride,  and 
Mrs.  Prescott  was  stren-oo-ous  about  my  sitting  up,” 
said  she,  in  a deprecating  tone,  for  she  stood  a little  in 
awe  of  the  head  of  the  family. 

The  doctor  thanked  her  heartily,  but  could  not  avoid 
one  of  his  half-satirical  smiles,  as  he  met  the  widow’s 
sombre  black  eyes  through  the  “green  gloom”  of  a 
pair  of  round  spectacles.  She  had  just  finished  toeing 
off  a stocking,  and  her  hair  was  charged  with  knitting- 
needles.  As  usual,  her  clean  calico  dress  had  retired 
from  this  dirty  world  under  various  concealments'.  A 
blue  checked  apron  covered  the  skirt;  baggy  brown 
“leggings ” the  sleeves ; and  the  waist  was  well  hidden 
under  a merino  cape,  made  of  small  black  “scrids,” 
pieced  “ askew,”  and  edged  with  rabbits’  fur.  So  gro- 
tesque was  Widow  Works’s  general  appearance,  at 
home  and  abroad,  that  she  was  suspected  by  the  vil- 
lagers of  being  a little  “ flared.”  When  asked  why 
she  did  not  dress  like  other  people,  she  had  been 


78 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER, 


known  to  reply  that  she  never  intended  to  marry  again, 
and  “did  not  wish  to  hold  out  any  inducements  to 
gentlemen.” 

“ Doctor,”  said  she,  rising  and  pouring  a mugful  of 
foaming  tea,  made  by  a i^rivate  recipe  of  her  own,  and 
famous  throughout  the  neighborhood,  “which  one  of 
the  Workses  was  it?  And  did  he  get  much  hurt  ? ” 

“It  was  James  Works,”  replied  the  doctor,  drinking 
the  delicious  beverage  with  a relish ; “ he  fell  from  a 
wagon,  and  broke  his  collar-bone.” 

“ O,  was  that  all  ? ” 

“You  don’t  wish  it  had  been  worse,  I hope?  You 
think  he  treated  you  unfairly,  I believe,  at  the  time  of 
your  husband’s  death  ? ” 

“I  know  he  did,  doctor!  You  see,  the  heft  of  the 
property  - — ” 

“Yes,  yes,  I understand.  But  did  you  ever  ask 
James  Works  to  make  it  a matter  of  conscience? 
Did  you  talk  to  him  plainly  ? ” 

“Did  I,  sir?  You  shall  see,”  replied  the  widow,  a 
bitter  look  darkening  her  eyes  ; and  going  up  stairs  she 
quickly  returned  with  a well-worn  sheet  of  foolscap. 
“This  is  the  copy  of  a letter  I wrote  James  Works; 
and  I leave  you  to  judge  whether  I was  mealy- 
mouthed,  sir,”  said  she,  giving  the  doctor  the  paper 
triumphantly,  as  one  who  should  say,  “ Here’s  elo- 
quence 1 ” 

The  doctor  read  it  aloud  : — 

“James  Works.  Sir:  Indignation  concerning  the 

will  of  Josiah  Works  still  burns  in  the  bosom  of  my- 
self, the  Hights  of  Poonoosac,  and  the  Lowes  of  Quin- 


THANKFUUS  THIRDS. 


79 


nebasset.  We  all  know  you  took  advantage  , of  his 
habits  to  get  him  to  will  away  my  thirds.  Is  there 
any  punishment  for  such  outrageous  conduct,  or  must 
we  wait  till  the  day  of  judgment  to  have  every  man 
rewarded  according  to  his  deeds  ? I expect  you  to 
give  me  back  my  thirds ; and  the  longer  you  delay, 
the  smaller  you  look  to  yours. 

Thankful  Works.” 

“That’s  strong,”  laughed  the  doctor.  “But,  as 
James  was  not  moved  by  it,  why  didn’t  you  break  the 
will?” 

“ Break  the  will  ? ” repeated  Thankful,  with  a re- 
vengeful glance  at  the  ginger  tea.  “ My  feelings 
wouldn’t  allow  that,  doctor.  I had  too  much  respect 
for  the  dead.” 

“ Humph  ! Better  break  a will  than  hold  a grudge ! 
But  let  me  say  this  to  you,  my  good  woman.  If  Janies 
Works  has  used  you  ill, — as  I do  not  doubt  he  has, — 
it  is  safe  to  forgive  him  now.” 

“Goodness  sakes  alive,  doctor!  You  don’t  mean 
he’s  going  to  die?  ” 

“ I cannot  tell.  He  has  met  with  serious  internal 
injuries,  poor  fellow.  Time  will  determine.” 

“ Dear,  dear,  dear ! ” cried  the  widow,  with  clasped 
hands  and  quivering  knitting-needles.  “Don’t  think 
I’m  a heathen,  doctor,  if  I did  write  that  letter.  If 
James  is  going  to  die,  I forgive  him  out  and  out.” 

“ But  if  he  should  get  well,  what  then  ? ” laughed 
the  doctor,  in  his  short,  dry  way;  and,  bidding  the 
weeping  widow  good  night,  he  passed  into  the  sitting- 
room,  to  see  if  the  fire  was  properly  raked.  To  his 


80 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


surprise,  Marian  stood  leaning  over  the  mantel,  sobbing 
bitterly. 

Why,  daughter,  little  daughter,  what  is  it  ? ” 

The  very  slight  touch  of  sarcasm  which  Thankful 
had  unconsciously  felt  in  his  voice  was  gone  now,  and 
in  its  place  was  such  atfectionate  tenderness  that  Mar- 
ian threw  herself  right  into  his  arms. 

“ O,  papa,  I’m  so  discouraged,  so  tired  of  trying  to 
do  right ! What  do  you  suppose  I was  born  for  ? ” 

“ Bless  us,  how  the  little  heart  quivers ! Born  for  ? 
Why,  to  be  a noble,  high-minded  woman,  when  the 
time  comes,  and  a blessing  all  the  way  along.” 

“ But  I can’t ; O,  I can’t,  papa  ! ” 

“ But  you  are,  dear.” 

“ No,  no,  papa ; how  can  I be  a blessing  when  I’ve  — 
I don’t  know  but  I’ve  broken  somebody’s  heart.” 

“ Somebody’s  heart,  child  ? ” 

“Yes;  it  was  not  an  engagement,  it  is  true,”  sobbed 
Marian  ; “ not  quite  ; but  it  would  have  been,  I really 
think,  if  I — Well,  there,  papa,  it  is  such  a very 
foolish  thing  to  tell.” 

The  doctor  looked  hard  at  the  young  creature, 
whose  small,  soft  face  was  bowed  with  such  a weight 
of  woe  upon  his  arm. 

“ What  is  my  baby  saying  about  engagements  ? I 
can’t  have  heard  you  clearly ; I don’t  understand.” 

“I  mean  Mr.  Loring ; and  it  was  ray  way  of  doing 
unheard-of  things  that  made  a coolness,  papa.  ‘ No 
discretion,  and  no  delicacy,’  Pauline  says  ; and  I could 
bear  it  better  to  hear  her  say  so,  if  it  wasn’t  true.”  ^ 

“ There,  there,  don’t  sob  so  hard,  my  child.  Indis- 
creet you  may  be  ; but  papa  will  not  own  that  his  little 


THANKFUVS  THIRDS. 


81 


girl  has  no  delicacy.  Begin  at  the  beginning,  Marian, 
and  tell  me  what  has  happened.” 

Thus  encouraged,  Marian  related  the  whole  story 
of  the  foolish  poem,  not  omitting  the  “subterfuge,” 
though  at  that  her  father  was  a little  startled,  prevari- 
cation being  by  no  means  one  of  her  besetting  sins. 

“ And  I really  thought,  papa,  Pauline  suspected  Mr. 
Loring.” 

The  doctor  smiled  quietly. 

“ So,  after  a long  struggle,  I went  to  her  this  even- 
ing, and  told  her  the  truth.  And,  what  do  you  think? 
She  only  laughed  in  my  face.  ‘ As  if  she  could  sus- 
pect a sensible  man  of  scratching  such  doggerel ! ’ she 
said.  And  I know  she  never  did ; it  really  was  too 
silly,  papa.  But  if  that  isn’t  the  trouble,  what  is  it  ? 
Why  does  she  treat  him  so,  then  ? ” 

“ There’s  no  accounting  for  young  people’s  freaks. 
I fancy  she  may  be  a little  ashamed  of  being  the  butt 
of  ridicule.  That  is  probably  the  amount  of  it,”  said 
the  doctor,  thoughtfully. 

“ But  Mr.  Loring  used  to  come  here  so  free  and 
easy,  just  like  one  of  the  family.  Do  you  suppose 
that’s  all  over  now  ? ” 

“ I cannot  say  ? It’s  not  our  affair.” 

“ But  it  is  my  afiliir.  I did  it !'”  cried  Marian.  “ I’d 
go  through  fire  and  water  to  undo  it.  I’ll  run  right 
over  to  Judge  Davenport’s,  and  see  Mr.  Loring.” 

“ There,  that  will  answer.  Don’t  you  perceive, 
Marian,  it  is  your  very  impulsiveness  which  has  made 
all  the  mischief?  Wait,  now,  and  let  affairs  take 
their  course.” 

“ But  isn’t  there  anything  I can  do  ?” 

6 


82 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


‘‘  Nothing,  child.  Stop  doing.” 

“ But  Pauline  ? ” 

‘‘  Pauline  is  her  own  mistress.  If  I understand  the 
case,  she  has  behaved  quite  as  foolishly  as  our  little 
poetaster  herself.” 

Marian  looked  up  in  astonishment. 

“ Why,  mother  says  Pauline  has  an  exquisite  sense 
of  propriety,  and  you  always  call  her  your  ‘proper 
child.’” 

“ There  is  such  a thing  as  being  too  proper.” 

“Ah,  that  doesn’t  mean  me!  I hope  I didn’t  do 
wrong  in  telling  you,  papa.  Why  is  it  I always  come 
to  you  with  everything,  when  Pauline  and  Keller 
don’t  dare?” 

A pained  expression  crossed  the  doctor’s  firm  mouth ; 
but  Marian  did  not  observe  it. 

“ I fancy  you’re  a magnet,  papa,  and  I am  steel,  and 
they  are  oxidized  iron ; isn’t  that  it  ? ” 

“We  won’t  sit  up  to  discuss  chemistry,”  said  the 
doctor,  somewhat  sharply.  “Go  to  bed,  child,  and 
don’t  brood  over  this  nonsense.  To  change  the  sub- 
ject, though,  I will  tell  you  a word  about  Thankful ; 
but  mind  you  keep  it  to  yourself  now.” 

Marian  smiled  as  she  smoothed  the  thin,  fair  hair 
from  her  father’s  forehead.  How  much  better  he  un- 
derstood her  than  Pauline  did,  who  so  seldom  trusted 
her  with  a secret ! 

“I  was  called  to-night  to  see  James  Works,  her 
brotlier-in-law.  I think  he  will  die.  I found  him 
friglitened  and  penitent.  He  inquired  for  Thankful, 
and  owned  he  hadn’t  treated  her  fairly.  I told  him 
there  was  still  time  to  do  works  meet  for  repentance, 


THANKFUL S THIRDS. 


83 


and  urged  him  to  make  a will,  restoring  her  thirds; 
and  I am  pretty  sure  he  will  do  it.” 

“ How  much  do  her  thirds  amount  to  ? ” 

“ Some  three  thousand  dollars,  more  or  less.” 

“ Why,  father,  if  Thankful  gets  as  much  money  as 
that,  she  won’t  be  obliged  to  do  housework.” 

‘^No,  perhaps  not.” 

O,  dear ! and  she  is  such  a capital  cook.  Just  the 
best  help  we  ever  had,  and  no  fault  but  talking  so 
much  about  Josiah.  I don’t  see,  father,  how  we  can 
ever  let  her  go.” 

“Selfish  little  tyrant!”  said  the  doctor,  pinching 
Marian’s  upturned  chin,  one  of  the  loveliest  ever 
tickled  by  a dimple.  “Would  you  have  had  me  con- 
sider our  own  convenience,  before  I counselled  James 
Works  to  do  his  duty?” 

“No,  sir;  O,  no,”  said  Marian,  blushing.  “I  didn’t 
mean  that ! Only,  you  know,  if  mother  and  I should 
go  to  Cuba  — ” 

“ Mother  and  I,”  laughed  the  doctor.  “ Go  to  bed, 
child.” 


84 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  XL 

CUBA  PREVAILS. 

t T was  a late,  cold  siiring.  There  was  the  usual 
panic,  at  Quinnebasset,  lest  the  ice,  when  it 
went  out,  should  take  the  bridge  with  it ; but  it 
had  not  strength  enough,  and  the  bridge  was  left  yet  a 
little  longer  to  shake  under  every  wagon  that  passed 
over  it. 

Nothing  very  important  occurred  in  town.  Mr. 
Willard  continued  to  keep  the  princij^al  store  on  the 
north  side  of  the  river,  and  aunt  Esther  to  practise 
economy  in  his  family.  Judith,  being  “at  the  growing 
age,”  and  quite  averse  to  general  housework,  slipped  . 
off  at  every  opportunity  to  revel  in  poetry  or  novels. 

Robert  worked  hard  at  copying  deeds  in  the  Regis- 
try. His  father  had  never  sent  him  away  to  school  for 
a single  term ; but  the  youth  might  have  struck  out  for 
himself,  and  would  have  done  so,  only  that  Mr.  Wil- 
lard, taking  counsel  of  ^unt  Esther,  declared  he  could 
not  give  his  boys  their  time ; they  must  contribute  to 
the  family  support  till  they  were  twenty-one.  Robert 
continued,  however,  to  glean  knowledge  under  diffi- 
culties. Slow,  diligent,  and  persevering,  his  mind, 
as  Dr.  Prescott  said,  admiringly,  was  constructed 
like  a sheep’s  jaws;  it  could  pick  up  its  living  off  a 
rock. 


CUBA  PREVAILS. 


85 


Little  Benjie  would  think  it  hardly  correct  to  say  noth- 
ing of  importance  was  occurring  in  town.  Miss  O’Neil 
had  put  him  into  geography,  and  he  had  learned  that 
Newfoundland  is  south-east  of  Florida.  And  so  it 
was,  on  his  small  map,  having  been  crowded  out  of 
its  proper  place.  Considering  this  surprising  informa- 
tion, his  parents  decided  to  take  him  out  of  school  be- 
fore his  ideas  of  locality  should  become  hopelessly 
twisted.  Benjie  was  ecstatic,  and  Miss  O’Neil  easily 
consoled  for  the  loss  of  her  pupil  by  the  gift  of  a bar- 
rel of  flour  and  an  infuriated  crimson  head-dress,  which 
Keller  had  selected,  with  his  usual  taste,  at  a milliner’s 
shop  in  Boston.  To  be  sure.  Miss  O’Neil  scorned  the 
head-dress ; but  it  gave  her  something  to  scold  about 
and  pick  to  pieces,  and  so  added  not  a little  to  her 
scanty  fund  of  happiness. 

Keller  came  home  the  last  of  July,  with  fragile  little 
Charlie  Snow;  but  looked  so  mortified  when  asked  “if 
this  was  a bridal  tour,”  that  it  was  evident  he  was 
ashamed  of  the  joke.  “ A fellow  can’t  have  any  peace,” 
said  he  aside  to  Robert,  “ they  take  you  up  so  on 
every  little  thing.  Look  here.  Bob ; on  the  square  now, 
what  did  O’Neil  mean  by  rolling  her  eyes,  on  the 
church  steps,  and  saying,  ‘ A horse  is  a vain  thing  for 
safety,  O you  foolish  Galathian  ’ ? ” 

“Why,  you  looked  rather  too  jolly,  I dare  say,  going 
by  .her  window  on  horseback.  Poor  O’Neil  can’t  bear 
enjoyment  in  other  people;  that’s  one  of  her  amiable 
weaknesses,  you  know.” 

“Was  that  all?  Good  for  her!  You  see.  Bob,  I 
was  afraid  she  meant  something  else.  There  was  an 
old  dry-bones  of  a parson  let  out  his  old  dry-bones  of*  a 


86 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


horse  to  feed  near  the  school  buildings ; and,  to  refresh 
the  poor  beast,  some  of  us  fellows  dabbed  him  all  over 
wdth  brown  paint.  He  was  sorrel  to  begin  with,  and 
when  he  came  out  speckled,  the  parson  didn’t  seem  to 
recognize  him.  He  hunted  round  and  round  all  day, 
and  the  exercise  was  a fine  thing  for  him ; but  some- 
how he  couldn’t  find  the  horse.  W e fellows  offered  to 
assist;  and,  I tell  you,  we  scoured  that  town  well. 
When  we’d  used  our  legs  up,  we  made  use  of  turpen- 
tine, and  that  found  the  horse.  ’Twas  too  late,  though, 
for  the  parson  to  meet  an  engagement ; and  there  was 
a while  we  shook  in  our  boots,  for  he  turned  out  to  be 
one  of  your  big  guns,  and — ” 

“Going  gunning,  boys?  What  are  you  laughing 
at?”  said  Marian,  coming  into  the  room  with  her  apron 
full  of  wild  flowers. 

“Nothing.  Bob  laughs  if  you  only  point  your  finger 
at  him,”  said  Keller,  giving  him  a poke  in  the  side. 
“ By  the  way,  Marian,”  — Keller  was  always  saying 
“ by  the  way,”  — “ what’s  up  with  Mr.  Loring,  that  he 
doesn’t  come  here  now  ? ” 

“He  was  here  week  before  last,”  returned  Marian, 
avoiding  Robert’s  eye — for  what  he  thought  of  the 
matter  she  did  not  know.  “ He  came  two  or  three 
times  to  read  to  me  when  I had  the  roseola.” 

“ Measles,  that  is.  All  right,”  said  Keller,  carelessly ; 
“ only  I thought  he  and  Pauline  were  great  friends  last 
I heard  of  them.” 

“ See,  Robert,”  exclaimed  Marian,  with  sudden  enthu- 
siasm, “ how  my  ivy  grows.  Two  years  old,  and  it  has 
crept  twenty  feet,  shouldn’t  you  say  ? From  the  bay- 
window  to  the  looking-glass.” 


CUBA  PREVAILS, 


87 


‘‘Just  to  see  itself,  hey?  Vain  thing!”  said  Keller, 
looking  not  at  the  “ vain  thing,”  but  at  his  own  reflection 
in  the  large  mirror  between  the  windows.  “What  was  I 
trying  to  say  ? O,  ‘ Picked  Evil  ’ told  me  some  kind 
of  a yarn  about  Thankful’s  having  money  fall  to  her. 
It  isn’t  true,  of  course  ? ” 

“Yes,  but  it  is.  Her  brother-in-law  died,  and  left 
her  those  ‘ thirds  ’ you’ve  heard  so  much  about.  But 
she  chooses  to  stay  here  all  the  same.  She  never  will 
marry  again,  Keller;  three  thousand  dollars  don’t 
change  her  views  of  mankind,”  said  Marian,  laughing 
lightly,  as  she  gave  the  last  touches  to  a vase  of  nod- 
ding harebells,  bittersweet,  and  clematis,  and  flitted  out 
of  the  room  to  shake  her  apron. 

“ I’m  glad  to  hear  of  that  windfall ; ’twill  be  nice  to 
borrow  of  the  old  girl  when  a fellow’s  hard  up,”  re- 
marked Keller,  stretching  his  length  across  two  chairs. 

Robert  looked  at  him  keenly. 

“You  lazy,  good-for-nothing  boy;  if  you’re  hard  up 
again.  I’ll  report  you.” 

“You  don’t  scare  me  that  way.  Bob.  Old  Slyboots 
Loring  reported  me,  but  I’ll  risk  you.  By  the  way, 
wasn’t  it  lucky  Marian  didn’t  get  hold  of  that  story  of 
the  painted  horse  ? If  it  had  been  Pauline,  I wouldn’t 
have  cared.” 

“ Why,  that’s  queer,”  said  Robert,  “ when  Pauline  is 
so  fastidious,  and  Marian  is  running  all  over  with  fun.” 

“ That  shows  how  much  you  know  of  my  two  sisters, 
sir.  Pauline’s  a real  comfort  to  a fellow ; but  Marian 
is  too  sharp-cornered  to  suit  me.” 

“Well,  there’s  no  accounting  for  the  different  effects 
the  same  temperaments  have  on  different  people,”  said 


88 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


Robert,  wonderingly.  “Now,  I’m  just  a little  afraid  of 
Pauline ; but  I can  say  anything  under  the  sun  to 
Marian.” 

“ Can  you?  Why,  I’m  sure  she  hasn’t  any  particu 
lar  fancy  for  you,”  said  Keller,  bluntly. 

“ I wasn’t  talking  about  fancies,”  returned  Robert, 
slightly  annoyed. 

“ No,  but  I was ; and  I have  a real  one  for  you.  Bob, 
I suppose  you  know.  If  anybody  can  do  me  the  least 
good,  it’s  you.” 

“That  ‘if’  was  well  put  in.  How  do  you  stand  in 
your  class,  my  boy  ? ” 

“Well,  ‘he  that  is  low  need  fear  no  fall;’  so  J man- 
age to  keep  as  near  the  foot  as  I can,”  replied  Keller, 
examining  the  heel  of  his  boot  with  some  confusion. 
“You  know  I always  hated  to  study.” 

“ Study  ? Why,  you  never  did  it  yet.  Look  at  a 
lesson,  and  you  have  it.” 

“ I know  that ; so,  you  see,  I always  put  off  looking 
at  it  till  the  last  minute ; that’s  what’s  the  matter,” 
said  Keller,  with  a very  complacent,  good-natured 
laugh. 

“Shame  on  you!”  cried  Robert,  indignantly. 
“Pluming  yourself  on  being  quicker  to  learn  than 
other  boys ! Why  don’t  you  know  more,  then  ? ” 

“ Probably  should,  if  I had  to  dig  for  it  as  you  do. 
Bob.” 

“ I believe  you.  It’s  this  ‘ fatal  facility  ’ that  threat- 
ens to  be  the  ruin  of  you,”  said  Robert,  shaking  his 
great,  shaggy  head,  and  looking  down  compassionately, 
from  his  five  feet  eleven,  upon  the  handsome  young 
scatter-brains  before  him. 


CUBA  PREVAILS, 


89 


‘Fatal  facility ! ’ I’ll  make  a note  of  that.  Let’s  see ; 
here’s  mother’s  motto  in  my  pocket-book : ‘ Think  that 
to-day  shall  never  dawn  again.’  Who  w^ants  it  to  ? I 
say.  Better  days  coming — worth  two  of  this.  Marian 
has  the  same  motto.  She  and  I are  very  much  alike, 
you  know  — what  you  call  geniuses ; no  regulation 
to  us.” 

Robert  shook  his  head  again,  this  time  very  decid- 
edly. That  there  was  “ no  regulation  ” to  Keller  he 
admitted.  A screw  seemed  to  be  loose  somewhere, 
which  he  feared  would  never  tighten.  But  as  for 
Marian,  he  saw  nothing  amiss  in  her ; she  was  merely 
impulsive,  effervescent.  All  she  needed  was  the  “sweet 
benefit  of  time”  to  mature  her  into  a superior  wo- 
man. 

“Well,  Keller,  if  you  make  excuses  for  all  your  short- 
comings by  calling  yourself  a genius,  I’ve  nothing 
more  to  say.  You’ve  put  me  out  of  all  patience. 
Good  by.” 

Keller  only  laughed.  Bob’s  losing  his  patience  was 
nothing.  He  always  did  lose  it.  more  or  less,  after  any 
serious  talk  with  Keller;  but  then  he  was  just  as  mag- 
nanimous without  patience  as  other  people  are  with  it ; 
just  as  ready  to  do  you  a kindness,  OA^eiiook  your 
faults,  and  keep  all  unpleasant  particulars  to  himself. 

“ Splendid  old  Bob ! Pity  he’s  such  a whale ! 
What  a figure  he’d  make  as  a lawyer ! ‘ Fatal  facility.’ 

Yes,  I’ve  known  it  ever  since  that  hit  on  the  interred- 
with-your-bones  question.  I own  up  to  the  ‘facility,’ 
but  where  does  the  ‘ fatal  ’ come  in,  hey  ? By  the  way, 
I’m  going  out  to  stir  up  Thankful.  She  hates  man- 
kind, but  she  always  brightens  up  when  she  sees  me 


90 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


coming.  Glad  of  her  windfall.  Glad  for  her  sake,  I 
mean.  Don’t  I know  how  it  feels  to  be  without  mon- 
ey? Yes,  and  the  governor  so  everlasting  particular, 
down  to  half  a red  cent.  Wonder  if  the  old  girl 
would  like  to  lend  a fellow  something:,  on  good  se- 
curity?” 

. - ^Miss  Tottenham. 

September  3.  Fifteen  to-day.  A birth-night  sup- 
per, as  usual ; but  how  could  I enjoy  it,  with  the  whole 
Island  of  Cuba  pressing  upon  my  heart?  It  has  been 
up  with  mother,  and  down  with  Cuba,  or  vice  versa^  for 
two  years.  Now  uj)  comes  Cuba,  and  prevails.  I am 
not  the  one  to  go ; the  choice  falls  on  Pauline.  I am  to 
be  left  at  home  with  the  dropping  autumn  leaves. 
Heigh-ho ! 

Dear  mamma  seems  no  worse  than  usual.  I must 
hope  my  father  is  needlessly  alarmed.  She  walks 
about  the  house  and  grounds,  and  sits  in  the  summer- 
house in  the  sun,  looking  wonderfully  happy,  as  if  she 
were  resting  in  God’s  arms.  How  beautiful  that  is ! 
Seems  to  me  most  Christians  cling  to  him  feebly,  just 
with  one  finger;  but  mother  lies  close  to  his  breast. 
She  says  she  is  quite  sure  she  shall  come  back,  in  a 
few  months,  strong  and  well.  She  laughs  and  talks, 
and  seems  to  like  to  have  us  all  enjoy  ourselves.  She 
made  my  Italian  creams  with  her  own  hands,  and 
thought  out  the  w^ords  for  our  charades.  I had  Rob- 
ert and  Judith,  Oscaforia  and  Pitkin  Jones,  and  half  a 
dozen  others.  I told  Robert  I should  be  delighted  to 
see  Mr.  Loring,  my  darling  old  teacher,  if  we  weren’t 
all  too  young.  Robert  said  nothing,  but  went  right 


CUBA  PREVAILS, 


91 


off  and  invited  him  on  his  own  responsibility.  I think 
the  man  was  pleased  to  come ; and,  as  for  Pauline  — 
well,  I have  a page  to  tell  about  that. 

All  would  have  passed  off  finely  if  Miss  O’Neil 
hadn’t  appeared.  She  saw  the  lights,  she  said,  and 
“heard  the  verbal  music,”  — that  was  Marie  Smith, 
singing  operatic,  — and  concluded  to  drop  in,  “ for  she 
always  thought  everything  of  our  family.”  Talk  about 
a man’s  house  being  his  castle ! I’d  like  to  see  the 
castle  walls  Miss  O’Neil  wouldn’t  scale!  Yet  she  is 
well  bred  too,  in  her  way,  only  the  politeness  never 
struck  in.  I begged  Mr.  Loring  to  tell  a story  about 
something  that  happened  to  him  in  Germany;  but 
Miss  O’Neil  filled  all  the  pauses  by  scolding  Eenjie  be- 
cause some  other  boys  had  jumped  in  the  little  speck 
of  a grass-plot  before  her  front  door.  She  cuts  that  grass 
with  a pair  of  scissors,  and  makes  a bed  for  her  cat. 
Poor  little  Benjie  thought  a great  deal  of  sitting  up 
for  the  first  time  through  my  birth-night  party;  but 
Miss  O’Neil  got  him  fairly  exasperated  at  last,  and  he 
ran  round  the  room  hooting  like  a little  scream-engine. 
I had  to  coax  him  out,  and  pacify  him  with  jelly-cake. 
We  tried  “How  do  you  like  it?”^  But  Miss  O’Neil 
threw  us  into  the  greatest  confusion.  When  the  word 
was  “ hair,”  she  “ liked  it  on  humans  and  inhumans ; ” 
when  it  was  a waiter,  she  “ liked  it  up  a stove-pipe.” 
Mr.  Loring  told  her  nobody  ever  heard  of  a waiter  up 
a stove-pipe.  “Of  course  not;  that  was  the  funny 
part  of  it,”  she  said.  But  afterwards  she  helped  us  to 
the  words  in  plain  — Irish.  Well,  everybody  knows 
what  a fool  she  is ; so  what  do  I care  ? 

I had  a set  of  Mrs.  Browning  from  Robert,  and  a set 


92 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


of  turquoise  from  Keller.  Lovely  as  tlie  sky ; but  the 
boy  can’t  possibly  afford  it  — I mean  Keller.  And 
then  that  dear  Mr.  Loring  — 

Hark ! The  clock  strikes  eleven.  I am  tempted  not 
to  mind  it.  I so  long  to  sit  up  and  tell  the  whole  story, 
and  let  a ghost  walk  through  it  — the  ghost  I saw  to- 
night. I might,  for  no  one  knows  when  I go  to  bed. 
•But  my  father,  when  he  insisted  on  our  all  having  sep- 
arate chambers,  wished  us  to  make  it  a matter  of  con- 
science not  to  sit  up  late.  So,  good  night,  Miss 
Tottenham. 


M/SS  O^NEIL  EXPRESSES  HER  MIND,  93 


CHAPTER  XII. 


MISS  o’neil  expresses  her  mind. 


Miss  ToUeyiham, 


September  5. 


jXjj^  MIGHT  just  as  well  have  finished  the  story  on 


And  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  when  you  consider  the 
circumstances.  In  the  first  place,  I don’t  quite  enjoy 
entertaining  company  with  Pauline  looking  on.  When 
she  handed  iced  creams  I followed  with  pickles,  think- 
ing, to  be  sure,  it  was  cake.  Miss  O’Xeil  says  I 
‘‘learned  behavior  at  her  school;”, and  alas!  I begin 
to  think  I did.  I’m  at  the  disagreeable  age.  Miss  Tot- 
tenham, and  I feel  it.  It  is  not  the  fault  of  my  dear 
mother,  — this  hit-or-miss-ness,  — for  she  has  spared  no 
pains  in  trying  to  make  me  a true  lady.  Do  you  sup- 
pose there’s  anything  in  the  dispensary  to  stop  my 
blushing?  I wouldn’t  mind  doing  it  properly,  like 
Pauline.  A little  rosy  flush,  that  comes  and  goes,  is 
nice  and  becoming;  but  blushing  all  over  gives  you 
the  appearance  of  measles!  I never  saw  it  done  ex- 
cept by  me.  It’s  “ neck  or  nothing,”  and  arms  too ; so. 


my  birth-night  for  all  the  sleep  I got. 

“ My  soul  kept  up  too  much  light 
Under  my  eyelids  for  the  night.” 


94 


THE  DOCTOR DAUGHTER, 


from  a child,  I’ve  always  objected  to  wearing  short 
sleeves. 

Well,  I will  try  to  tell  the  events  of  the  evening,  as 
they  occurred.  I begged  for  mother’s  company,  and 
she  sat  out  most  of  the  charades.  We  had  them  in 
the  dining-room,  and  Silas  Hackett  officiated.  He  has 
some  talent  for  acting,  though  it  is  chiefly  in  low  com- 
edy, and  some  of  the  scenes  were  rather  too  boisterous 
for  the  good  of  the  furniture. 

They  were  all  impromptu  affairs;  but  the  drollest 
was  “Artemus  Ward.”  It  shocked  cousin  Sarah 
Hinsdale  and  Pauline,  though  they  were  too  polite 
to  give  expression  to  their  feelings.  The  fourth  syl- 
lable was  a ward  in  a soldiers’  hospital,  with  men  lying 
around  in  little  cot-beds,  groaning  in  the  liveliest  man- 
ner. You  could  not  help  laughing,  for  all  it  reminded 
you  so  terribly  of  the  real  thing.  Miss  O’Neil  loould 
appear  as  one  of  the  nurses,  carrying  about  a bowl  of 
gruel,  and  scolding  like  aunt  Hinsdale’s  parrot.  She 
was  just  as  disagreeable  and  contrary  as  if  the  men 
had  been  actually  sick,  and  her  growls  kept  the  actors 
in  such  a state  that  they  could  scarcely  speak  for 
laughing.  Silas  Hackett  was  the  surgeon,  and  sawed 
off  Pitkin  Jones’s  leg  beautifully.  “You  never  told 
me  you  were  going  to  do  that,  Cyrus ! Legs  are  very 
improper ! ” And  when  it  fell  to  the  floor  with  a loud 
noise,  she  informed  the  audience  it  was  only  a stick  of 
wood,  for  she  could  see  the  end  of  it  through  the  top 
of  the  boot. 

Mother  found  all  this  rather  fatiguing,  and  present- 
ly slipped  out  of  the  room  without  saying  anything. 
Whereupon  Miss  O’Neil  came  up  to  me,  as  I stood 


MISS  O^NEIL  EXPRESSES  HER  MIND,  95 


by  one  of  the  windows,  talking  with  Mr.  Loring  and 
Oscaforia,  and  said,  as  if  it  were  the  best  news  in  the 
world,  — 

‘‘  Miriam,  your  mother  is  failing  fast.” 

“ O,  no,  ma’am ; I hope  not ! ” 

“Yes,  she  is,  too.  Everybody  sees  it  but  just  your 
family.” 

I looked  at  Mr  Loring,  but  he  was  w^atching  the  new 
moon ; and  then  at  Oscaforia,  but  she  was  playing  with 
her  fan.  I could  not  catch  their  eyes. 

“I  never  saw  such  singular  people,”  added  Miss 
O’Neil,  in  that  angry  tone  of  hers,  as  if  she  were  re- 
senting an  insult.  “You  wouldn’t  be  tliought  any- 
thing of  at  Machias  — a girl  that  has  parties  in  her 
mother’s  last  days ! ” 

Mother’s  last  days  ! A strange  sensation  came  over 
me,  like  choking,  — and  like  wanting  to  choke  Miss 
O’Neil  too.  What  right  had  she  to  push  herself  into 
my  house,  and  talk  to  me  so  ? 

“Miss  O’Neil,”  said  I,  determined  to  frown  her 
down,  — for  I wouldn’t  have  her  see  a tear  in  my  eye 
for  the  world,  — “you  are  quite  mistaken  in  what  you 
say  of  my  mother.  But  really,  ma’am,  if  I saw  things 
as  you  do,  and  thought  people  had  parties  at  improper 
times,  it  seems  to  me  I would  stay  away,  especially 
when  I wasn’t  invited.” 

There,  I knew  that  was  very  rude,  and  would  make 
her  hate  me  worse  than  ever;  but  I declare  I couldn’t 
help  it.  Mr.  Loring  smiled  at  the  moon,  and  Oscaforia 
looked  as  shocked  as  her  exquisite  manners  will  allow ; 
but  ]\Iiss  Pry  didn’t  wince. 

“Miriam  Linscott,  I’m  a particular  friend  of  your 


96 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


mother’s,  and  don’t  stand  on  ceremony  in  her  house. 
But  I must  say  this : if  I have  my  senses  when  I am 
buried,  I hope  nobody  will  follow  me  to  my  grave  with 
such  actions  as  you’ve  had  here  to-night.” 

Mr.  Loring  turned  round  from  the  window  quite  ex- 
asperated, just  as  I have  seen  him  sometimes  when  the 
school-boys  were  playing  behind  his  back. 

“Miss  O’Neil,  I beg  you,  for  Miss  Marian’s  sake,  to 
choose  some  other  topic  of  conversation.  Mrs.  Pres- 
cott has  just  been  pouring  coffee  for  us  ; and  here  you 
speak  of  her  as  if  she  were  at  the  point  of  dpath.  It 
is  really  too  absurd  ! ” 

Miss  O’Neil  fixed  her  two  round  eyes  on  Mr.  Lor- 
ing with  great  severity. 

“Mr.  Lovell,”  said  she,  “did  you  ever  have  a 
mother  ? ” 

The  question  was  so  unexiDected  that  Oscaforia 
couldn’t  manage  her  mouth  — it  danced  right  up; 
but  Mr.  Loring  answered,  seriously, — 

“Yes,  madam,  I am  happy  to  say  — ” 

“Then,”  said  Miss  O’Neil,  “I  wonder  you  don’t  see 
how  proper  it  is  that  Miriam  should  be  prepared  for 
the  worst.  Mrs.  Linscott’s  death  may  be  momentary  — 
who  knows?  She  poured  out  the  coffee  just  now;  but 
what  of  that?  So  did  Judge  Dillingham’s  father,  — I 
mean  shaved  himself,  — and  leaned  right  back  and 
died.” 

. “ Let  me  go ! ” I cried,  darting  out  between  Mr.  Lor- 
ing and  Oscaforia,  and  rushing  to  the  bay-window.  It 
seemed  as  if  I must  have  air  or  die.  Robert  stood 
there,  examining  some  queer  stones  I had  put  at  the 
foot  of  my  calla  lily. 


M/SS  O'NEIL  EXPRESSES  HER  MIND.  97 


« Why,  Marian,  what  is  it?”  said  he. 

‘‘  Hush,  Robert ; 1 can’t  bear  a word ! ” 

He  saw  I wanted  to  get  out  of  sight  of  everybody, 
and  he  did  just  what  I should  have  asked  of  him  if  I 
had  only  thought  of  it,  — • brought  me  an  ottoman,  and 
then  stood  with  his  back  between  me  and  the  light. 
In  that  way  I had  a chance  to  collect  my  thoughts. 

What  did  Miss  O’Neil  mean?  She  is  very  nearly  a 
fool ; still  she  does  hit  the  truth  sometimes.  Let  peo- 
ple drop  remarks,  and  she  is  sure  to  pick  them  up 

“ as  pigeons  peas, 

And  utter  them  again  as  God  may  please.” 

You  can  generally  tell  through  her  what  is  talked  of  in 
the  neighborhood. 

‘‘  Robert,  come  up  to  me,  and  speak  very  low.  What 
are  people  saying  about  my  mother  ? ” 

He  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  then  it  was  only  by 
asking  a question. 

“Why  do  you  care  what  people  say?  They  can 
only  judge  from  appearances.  They  know  nothing  of 
the  case.” 

“ O,  Robert,  you  are  putting  me  off!  Tell  me  what 
you  think  yourself?” 

“I,  Marian?” 

“Yes,  you.  Your  opinion  is  next  as  good  as  my 
father’s.  You  are  going  to  be  a physician  some  time, 
and  you  are  always  looking  into  things  through  a mi- 
croscope. Tell  me  quick  what  you  think.” 

“ I think  your  mother  is  very  delicate  indeed,  with 
‘a  strong  tendency  — ” 

“ There,  Robert  Willard,  you  are  enough  to  provoke 

7 


98 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


a saint ! Talking  about  my  mother  as  if  she  were 
common  flesh  and  blood,  and  as  far  ofi*  as  Botany  Bay ! 
You  think  she  will  come  home  strong  and  well.  Say 
so  this  minute ! ” 

‘‘  I hope  so.” 

“ Say  you  think  so ! Say  you  know  so ! If  you  let 
her  die,  Robert  Willard,  if  you  and  my  father  let  her 
die.  I’ll  never  forgive  you  as  long  as  I live ! ” 

‘^Hush,  Marian!  You  talk  too  loud.  Let  us  go  into 
the  garden.” 

It  was  well  he  thought  of  that.  I stepped  out,  and 
he  followed,  but  left  me  a minute  to  go  for  a glass  of 
water.  I never  felt  so  before  — as  if  all  out-of-doors 
wasn’t  wide  enough  to  breathe  in.  But  drinking  some 
water,  and  having  my  face  bathed  with  it,  relieved  me 
a little. 

“Now,  Marian,”  said  Robert,  very  stemly,  “if  you 
will  control  yourself,  and  behave  like  a woman,  I will 
talk  to  you  — otherwise  not.” 

It  was  a strange  way  for  Robert  to  speak,  and  it 
surprised  and  hurt  me  so  that  I was  on  my  dignity  in 
a moment. 

“Yes,  I’ll  behave  like  a woman;  like  one  that’s  cut 
out  of  stone.  Speak,  and  tell  me  my  mother  is  going 
to  die.  Make  believe  I don’t  care  any  more  about  it 
than  you  would  if  it  were  your  mother,  you  know.” 

I cannot  tell  what  made  me  say  such  a cruel  thing, 
for  even  as  I spoke  a picture  flashed  up  before  me  of 
Robert  drawing  pale  Mrs.  Willard  in  a sedan  chair, 
and  turning  around  to  toss  violets  into  her  lap.  She 
always  chose  him  to  wait  on  her  rather  than  her  hus- 
band, and  he  often  caiTied  her  in  his  arms,  like  a baby. 


MISS  O'NEIL  EXPRESSES  HER  MIND,  99 


Robert  was  a loving  son  to  his  sick  mother,  and  he 
will  mourn  for  her  as  long  as  he  lives.  He  had  a 
right  to  be  very  angry  at  my  remark,  but  I doubt  if 
he  heard  it ; at  any  rate,  he  paid  no  attention  to  it. 

“You  know,  of  course,  Marian,  that  your  mother  is 
very  feeble ; but  I do  really  think  there  is  strong  hope 
of  her  getting  well.” 

“O,  Robert,  you  good  old  Robert;  bless  you  and 
thank  you  for  that ! ” 

He  laughed,  and  gave  me  another  drink  of  water. 

“ What  I say  is  nothing  original.  I only  quote  from 
your  father.” 

“Well,  that’s  enough.  You  and  ipy  father  cannot 
both  be  wrong.” 

“ But,  Marian,  to  be  frank  with  you,  most  people 
think  your  mother’s  case  is  hopeless,  — Dr.  Ware  into 
the  bargain.” 

“Dr.  Ware!  He  hasn’t  any  more  feeling  than  a 
stone  wall.  I should  think  he  would  be  ashamed  to 
give  anybody  up  in  that  off-hand  way ! Why,  it’s  out- 
rageous ! ” 

“Yet  it  must  be  owned  the  case  is  a critical  one. 
I wonder  you  cannot  see  that  for  yourself,  Marian. 
Have  you  never  been  anxious  about  your  mother?” 

“No;  that  is,  not  really.  She  always  seems  so 
happy,  how  could  I ? ” 

“That  is  it.  You  were  right  in  saying  she  isn’t 
common  flesh  and  blood.  And,  Marian,  there  is  just 
where  the  hope  lies.  It  is  your  high-hearted  people 
that  outlive  what  would  kill  the  timid  ones.  Now, 
her  chest  — ” 

There,  don’t  say  it.  It  makes  me  faint  to  hear 


100 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


about  people’s  organs.  You  and  my  father  think  she 
is  going  to  get  well  — ” 

“Yes,  and  that  is  all  I want  to  know.  Shake  hands 
with  me,  Robert,  and  tell  me  you  forgive  me  for  call- 
ing you  cold-hearted.  I didn’t  mean  any  such  thing.” 

I suppose  I must  have  been  very  pale,  for  when  we 
stepped  in  at  the  bay-window,  Judith  cried  out, 
“You’re  fainting  away ; you’re  fainting  away!”  And 
there  would  have  been  a scene  in  no  time  if  Robert 
hadn’t  put  a stop  to  it.  He  has  so  much  common 
sense ; there’s  the  beauty  of  Robert.” 


THE^ROMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE,  101 


CHAPTER  XIIL 


THE  EOMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE. 


Miss  Tottenham, 

September  5. 

^HE  room  seemed  to  be  full  of  life  and  gayety, 
and  it  chilled  me  all  over  to  hear  the  girls 
laugh  — the  very  girls  who  had  made  up  their 
minds  mother  was  going  to  die. 

‘‘Very  well,”  thought  I;  “let  them  enjoy  themselves. 
I’ll  stay  here  in  the  corner.  I shan’t  be  missed.”  And 
there  I stood,  feeling  “ as  alone  as  Lyra  in  the  sky,”  with 
the  dreary  lonesomeness  of  mother  gone  to  Cuba,  and 
behind  that  the  very  abomination  of  desolation  — 
mother  gone  to  heaven. 

While  I sniffed  at  the  heliotrope,  not  caring  a 
straw  for  politeness,  Pauline  came  along,  and  gave  me 
such  a look ! It  was  as  good  as  a small-sized  book  of 
etiquette.  I answered  her  aloud,  “Yes,  I’ll  come  in  a 
minute.” 

Pauline  wouldn’t  forget  her  manners  on  the  way  to 
the  scaffold.  She  would  shake  out  the  folds  of  her 
dress,  and  hold  up  her  head  like  a lady,  with  what  the 
girls  call  “ a good  do  on  her  back  hair.”  But,  before  I 
had  time  to  obey  her,  Mr.  Loring  came  up  to  us,  say- 


102 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


“ Will  you  allow  me,  Miss  Marian  ? We  have  been 
playing,  ‘ What  is  my  thought  like  ? ’ and  my  thought 
was  you.  Now,  why  was  my  thought  like  this,  should 
you  say  ? ” 

It  was  a half-open  blush  rose  — blushing  all  over; 
a very  proper  way  for  a rose  ! 

“ O,  how  beautiful ! ” I cried ; and  was  just  going  to 
inhale  its  -fragrance,  when  Mr.  Loring  laughed,  and 
shut  down  a glass  case  over  it,  which  was  pantomime 
for  saying,  “ Hands  off!  Noses  off!  Done  in  wax!” 
Then  I enjoyed  it  a second  time  as  a work  of  art,  abso- 
lutely perfect,  even  to  the  tiny  prickles  on  the  stem.  I 
don’t  know  whether  Pitkin  Jones  meant  anything 
hateful  or  not,  when  he  said,  — 

A rosebud  set  with  little  wilful  thorns.” 

Pitkin  is  famous  for  quoting  poetry.  And  I enjoyed  it 
a third  time  as  a present  from  dear  Mr.  Loring,  on 
what  he  calls  my  sixteenth  birthday.  I thanked  him 
over  and  over  for  the  rose;  but  one  of  the  thanks, 
though  he  did  not  know  it,  was  for  setting  me  ahead  a 
year.  I liked  his  calling  it  my  sixteenth  birthday. 

‘‘  Mr.  Loring,  I don’t  see  why  she  is  like  a rosebud,” 
said  Robert,  with  a mischievous  glance  at  my  hair. 
“ If  you  had  said  a dandelion  now ! ” 

Or  a leaf  of  Turkish  tobacco,”  said  Silas  Hackett ; 
“ that  is  nearer  the  color.” 

I was  glad  to  laugh,  for  Mr.  Loring’s  talk  about  the 
“ rosebud  garden  of  girls  ” was  rather  embarrassing,  and 
I did  not  know  what  to  say. 

•But  that  “ respectable,  aged,  and  indignant  female,” 
as  Silas  Hackett  calls  Miss  O’Neil,  had  scented  the 


THE  ROM  AUNT  OF -THE  ROSE. 


103 


rose  from  afar,  and  came  up  now  to  see  how  she  could 
make  herself  disagreeable. 

“ That’s  a beautiful  wax  image,  Mr.  Lovell.  I hope 
you  didn’t  give  it  to  Miriam  Linscott  ? ” 

«I  did.” 

Indeed!  And  Mrs.  Linscott  not  here  to  speak 
for  herself!  Miriam,  does  your  mother,  a Christian 
woman,  allow  you  to  receive  presents  from  gentle- 
men ? ” 

I thought  how  ashamed  I should  be  to  blush  at 
such  a speech  as  that ; so  of  course  I blushed. 

“ Mother  will  be  charmed  with  it,  I am  sure,”  said 
Pauline,  kindly  coming  to  the  rescue.  ‘‘See,  Miss 
O’N eil,  how  perfect  the  petals  are ! ” 

Miss  ONeil  glowered  at  the  rose,  and  then  at  Mr. 
Loring. 

“ Foolish  Galathian,”  said  she;  “why  didn’t  you  give 
it  to  Paulina  ? ” 

If  she  had  been  trying  to  make  a sensation,  she 
made  it  that  time ; you  could  feel  it  in  the  air. 

“ ‘ O,  yes,  you  needn’t  tell  me,”  said  she,  smoothing 
down  her  apron.  “The  time  was  when  you’d  have 
given  it  to  Paulina,  and  been  glad  to ; and  you  woufe 
now,  if  that  little  dancing  daughter  of  Benjamin  hadn’t 
stood  in  the  way,  writing  verses  that  I’ve  heard  with 
my  own  lips,  and  not  a word  of  truth  ever  came  out  of 
them  yet.  What  makes  you  smile,  Cyrus  Hackett? 
I’m  very  intimate  in  this  family,  and  how  could  she 
have  a white  satin  dress  and  I not  know  it  ? ” 

“How,  indeed?  I defy  her  to  do  it,”  said  Silas,  so 
solemnly  that  everybody  laughed,  even  Pauline. 

“ And  you’ve  been  under  a halluzion  of  mind,  Mr. 


104 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


Lovell,  if  you  think  Paulina  Linscott  scolds.  She’s  no 
more  of  a scold  than  I am.  I wish  you’d  talked 
with  me  before  you  gave  Miriam  that  rose.  It  was 
just  what  she  wrote  the  poem  for,  as  I could  have  told 
you.  And,  if  you’re  a gentleman,  you’ll  ask  Paulina 
Linscott’s  pardon  for  doing  it.” 

For  doing  what?  I’ll  leave  it  to  you.  Miss  Totten- 
ham, if  that  speech  wasn’t  ridiculous  enough  to  ap- 
proach the  sublime.  Everybody  heard  it  too,  for  her 
tone  was  as  sharp  as  boxing  your  ears.  And,  in  the 
midst  of  the  laughing,  Mr.  Loring  stepped  up  to  Pau- 
line, holding  out  his  hand,  and  said,  — 

“Miss  O’Neil  bids  me  beg  your  pardon.  Will  you 
grant  it.  Miss  Prescott,  and  then  tell  me  what  for?” 
There  was  such  a funny  twinkle  in  his  eyes  that 
Pauline  answered  forthwith,  — 

“Yes,  I forgive  you,  provided  Miss  O’Neil  thinks  I 
ought.  But  will  you  promise  not  to  do  so  again?” 
Adding,  with  one  of  her  lovely  blushes,  “ Let  us  see, 
sir  — what  is  it  you  are  never  to  do  again  ? ” 

“I  am  to  give  your  sister  no  more  roses,”  replied 
Mr.  Loring. 

And  then  they  both  smiled  in  a very  friendly  way, 
and  not  like  a couple  of  Alpine  peaks,  as  they’ve  done 
lately.  “The  frost  is  coming  out  of  the  ground,” 
thought  I.  It  was  just  what  I had  been  longing  for, 
but  hadn’t  expected,  and  now  a good  laugh  had  thawed 
it  through  and  through.  The  first  time  Miss  O’Neil 
ever  played  the  part  of  a sunbeam.  I’ll  warrant. 

“Our  indiscretion  sometimes  serves  us  well,”  said 
Robert  aside  to  me.  I knew  that  was  Shakespeare, 
but  didn’t  know  whether  it  referred  to  Miss  O’Neil 


THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE.  105 


or  me.  Both  of  us  are  indiscreet  enough,  I should 
hope ! 

But  somehow  the  sight  of  Pauline  and  Mr.  Loring 
shaking  hands  like  old  times  touched  my  heart ; and 
that  Soapsuds  bubbling  with  satisfaction  because  I 
was  to  have  no  more  roses,  touched  my  risibility.  I 
laughed,  without  the  remotest  idea  I was  crying,  too, 
till  I heard  myself  sobbing  out,  “O,  dear  me!  I 
believe  I do  more  harm  asleep  than  other  people  do 
awake,”  meaning  the  Dream. 

It  was  not  at  all  the  thing  to  say ; and  for  fear  I 
might  put  on  an  appendix  that  would  be  still  worse, 
I flew  out  of  the  room  in  a sort  of  gale.  Disagreeable 
age.  Miss  Tottenham ! 

And  that  was  the  time  I saw  the  ghost.  He  stood 
leaning  against  the  kitchen  sink,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  just  like  real  live  laziness ; and  Thankful  sat 
near  by,  chopping  a vegetable  hash,  and  smiling  at  him 
through  her  green  spectacles  — actually  smiling.  He 
had  such  a roly-poly  figure,  and  twitched  his  fi’ont  hair 
so  respectfully  when  he  saw  me  coming,  that  I never 
should  have  mistrusted  he  was  a ghost,  if  Thankful 
hadn’t  introduced  him. 

‘‘James  Works,”  said  she;  “ Josiah’s  brother,  that 
lives  at  Poonoosac.” 

I started  back.  The  man  died  last  March.  I re- 
membered all  the  circumstances ; how  my  father  went 
in  a driving  storm,  and  found  him  battered  to  pieces, 
frightened  and  penitent ; how  he  had  been  persuaded 
to  make  a will,  restoring  Thankful’s  thirds,  and  then 
had  died  in  peace,  leaving  her  with  “ something  to  lay 
her  hands  to.”  And  now  he  had  come  to  take  it  away 


106 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


again.  Why  couldn’t  he  stay  dead?  I went  into 
mother’s  room,  laughing. 

‘‘Mamma,”  said  I,  “if  a man  wills  away  his  prop- 
erty, isn’t  he  obliged  to  die  before  anybody  can  get 
at  it  ? ” 

Mother  looked  at  me  as  if  she  thought  me  insane. 

“Marian,  did  you  leave  your  guests  in  the  parlor, 
and  come  here  to  ask  me  such  a question  as  that? 
What  have  you  been  doing  that  makes  you  look  so 
wild?” 

“Nothing;  only  Robert  spilled  a little  water  over 
me,  mamma.  And  the  jelly  — O,  I dropped  that  on  in 
the  kitchen.  What  I want  to  know  is,  didn’t  James 
W orks  will  Thankful  his  thirds  ? ” 

“ Her  thirds  ? Y es.” 

“Well,  then,  he  ought  to  have  died ; and  I am  sure  I 
thought  he  did.” 

“No,  Marian;  that  is  one  of  your  mistakes.  He  is 
alive  and  well.” 

“Yes,  mamma,  and  leaning  against  our  sink.” 

“ But  he  had  been  brought  to  see  he  was  using  ill- 
gotten  wealth,  Marian,  and  he  would  not  let  poor 
Thankful  wait  for  his  death  before  she  had  what  really 
belonged  to  her.” 

“How  sensible  of  him,  mamma!  Now  that  ac- 
counts for  Thankful’s  green-glass  smiles.  I didn’t  see 
how  she  could  be  so  good-natured  to  him,  when  she 
hates  the  whole  race  of  mankind.  But  just  think,  it 
must  have  cost  James  something  to  live,  if  he  had  to 
take  the  money  out  of  his  own  pocket.” 

Mother  laughed  a little ; and  then  the  amused  look 


THE  ROM  AUNT  OF  THE  ROSE, 


107 


changed  into  an  angelic  expression,  which  I couldn’t 
bear  to  see. 

‘‘  He  has  had  such  a glimpse  of  the  great  realities  of 
life,  Marian,  that  I suppose  those  few  thousands  seem 
no  more  to  him  now  than  motes  floating  in  the  sun- 
shine. When  we  are  brought  so  near  the  gates  of 
heaven  that  we  can  look  in  — ” 

“Mother,  mother,  mother!”  cried  I,  throwing  my 
arms  around  her.  “Don’t  say  a word  about  heaven, 
unless  you  want  to  kill  me.” 

I suppose  she  saw  I was  very  much  excited,  for  she 
stopped  talking,  and  began  to  brush  my  hair,  and  wash 
out  the  jelly-stain  in  the  waist  of  my  dress,  and  soothe 
me  with  soft  mother-touches,  till  I grew  reasonable 
enough  to  be  trusted  in  the  parlor  once  more.  When 
I got  there,  I was  in  such  a daze  that  I forgot  my 
manners  worse  than  ever,  as  Pauline  must  have  seen. 
But  she  didn’t  give  me  the  curtain-lecture  afterwards 
that  I had  expected.  On  the  contrary,  she  kissed  me 
very  tenderly,  and  then  held  me  out  at  arm’s  length, 
saying,— 

“ I must  confess  you  are  a graceful  creature,  Marian. 
Yes,  that  is  true.  I wish  ,you  would  be  a little  more 
circumspect  and  composed.  But,  after  all,  dear,  I 
don’t  know  but  it  is  just  as  well  to  let  you  alone. 
You  will  see  for  yourself,  one  of  these  days,  how  queer 
you  are  sometimes.  And  really  you  do  behave  better 
than  Oscaforia  Jones.” 

I could  hardly  believe  my  ears,  for  Oscaforia’s  man- 
ners are  considered  very  remarkable.  There  was  a 
stranger  here  last  summer  who  said  he  had  never  seen 


108 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


such  high-bred  composure  in  a girl  of  sixteen;  he 
should  think  she  had  made  the  grand  tour. 

“ Why,  child,  of  course  you  can’t  be  compared  with 
her  for  studied  elegance;  that’s  not  what  I mean,” 
said  Pauline.  “ But  I suppose  the  very  fact  that  Os- 
caforia’s  elegance  is  studied  makes  it  rather  tiresome 
occasionally.  I said  to  myself,  this  evening.  Give  me 
my  dear  little  sister,  with  her  perfect  unconsciousness ! 
I begin  to  think  a certain  friend  of  ours  is  right,  who 
says  it  is  Miss  Marian’s  greatest  charm.” 

I wanted  to  ask  what  friend  of  ours  she  meant ; but, 
just  as  I looked  up,  and  was  going  to  speak,  she 
blushed,  and  then  I knew.  O,  yes!  If  Mr.  Loring 
approves  of  me,  I can  wear  a foolscap  and  bells,  and 
no  questions  asked ! 

For,  you  see,  I blundered  into  the  front  entry  while 
he  and  Pauline  were  standing  in  the  doorway,  looking 
at  the  firmament  on  high,  and  heard  him  say  to  her, 
“ Pauline,  may  I give  you  that  polar  star  ? ” “ May  I ? ” 
As  if  he  were  so  well  acquainted  up  there  that  he 
thought  of  coaxing  the  Little  Bear  to  shake  it  down, 
only  he  had  his  doubts  about  its  being  good  enough 
for  her ! ‘‘  W ell,  there,”  thought  I,  ‘‘  Mr.  Boring’s  gen- 
erosity is  growing  upon  him  fast ! ” He  gave  me  one 
of  the  ‘‘  stars  of  earth,”  — that’s  a flower,  — but  noth- 
ing short  of  the  stars  of  heaven  will  do  for  Pauline ; 
and  perhaps  they  won’t,  either.  “ Stars,  you’d  better 
hide  your  diminished  heads ! ” 

Of  course  I knew  what  he  meant.  Something  about 
constancy,  and  looking  at  the  Little  Bear  up  there  at 
the  same  time  he  did,  and  “ remembering  me  when  this 
you  see,”  and  all  that  sort  of  foolishness. 


THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE, 


109 


I stole  off  as  soon  as  possible;  but  that  star  has 
thrown  a flood  of  light  into  my  mind.  I see  the  points 
of  it ! I shouldn’t  be  surprised,  any  time,  to  hear  of 
his  writing  letters  to  her,  and  her  answering  them  too. 

This  is  suimiising,”  though,  and  never  will  go  any 
farther;  for  you  may  be  pretty  sure  I shan’t  think 
aloud,  or  dream  aloud,  again,  after  all  that  has 
happened. 

But  one  question  comes  to  me  very  forcibly : Why 
is  it  that  people  grow  sillier  as  they  grow  older  ? In- 
telligent people,  I mean.  For  I certainly  don’t  be- 
lieve a girl  of  my  age  could  stand  and  take  the  gift 
of  a star  without  laughing.  But  Pauline  did.  She 
looked  up  at  the  sky,  and  never  so  much  as  smiled. 


110 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


THE  MOTHEE-WANT. 


Miss  Tottenham. 


October  1. 


a few  days  more,  and  they  are  to  start. 
Wjj  Do  you  hear  that,  Miss  Tottenham?  I tell 
my  father  that  every  time  I look  at  mother 
I am  cut  to  the  heart.  Yet  I can’t  keep  away  from 
her ; I feel  better  close  to  her.  My  father  laughs,  and 
says  “ it  is  on  the  principle  of  clasping  a thorn  close, 
and  it  won’t  prick.” 

My  dear  mother  comes  up  stairs  every  night,  and 
talks  to  me  so  beautifully  that  it  seems  as  if  I never 
could  have  a wrong  thought  again  as  long  as  I live. 
She  makes  God  seem  as  close  to  me  as  the  beatings  of 
my  own  heart.  And  when  she  goes  away,  I have  a 
feeling  somehow  as  if  she  had  left  flowers  in  the  room, 
and  the  softest  moonlight,  and  such  an  air  of  peace ! 
Now,  I can’t  make  you  understand  what  I mean,  and  I 
don’t  think  I really  know  myself! 

Pauline  has  a great  deal  more  to  do  yet  before  she 
is  ready  for  Cuba.  Sewing  can’t  progress  much  when 
you  are  dancing  off  every  other  minute,  taking  walks 
and  rides.  Her  going  sailing  last  evening  was  a great 
piece  of  foolishness,  for  she  was  making  a cambric 


THE  MOTHER-WANT, 


111 


wrapper  for  mother,  and  I had  to  finish  it  myself.  Just 
as  I began  on  the  button-holes,  my  father  came  in. 

“ Where  is  Pauline  ? ” said  he. 

‘‘Taking  a boat-ride  with  Mr.  Loring.  The  air  will 
do  her  good,”  replied  mother,  always  ready  to  justify 
our  eldest. 

“Ah?  Sits  the  wind  in  that  corner?”  said  my 
father,  as  if  it  were  news. 

“Yes,  sir,”  spoke  up  Benjie,  who  was  watching  the 
river  from  the  window ; “ the  wind  blows  down  stream ; 
’twill  blow  ’em  home,  and  not  half  try.” 

“ Pauline  has  such  quantities  to  do  that  I think  her 
conduct  is  rather  inconsistent,”  said  I,  with  some  dig- 
nity, for  I had  just  spoiled  a button-hole. 

My  father  looked  at  mother  and  smiled.  Perhaps 
he  thinks  Pauline  has  been  too  hard  upon  Mr.  Loring, 
and  ought  to  make  up  for  it  now,  even  if  she  goes  to 
Cuba  with  her  clothes  half  made. 

“ Marian,”  said  he,  “ I intended  to  make  you  a birth- 
day present,  but  was  disappointed,  and  had  to  wait  a 
month.  Will  it  do  just  as  well  now?” 

‘*  O,  papa,  what  a question ! ” 

“Well,  come  out  to  the  stable  with  me,  then.  Helen, 
my  child,  will  you  dare  to  come  too  ? ” “ Helen,  my 

child,”  is  mother’s  name  when  she  is  unusually  feeble. 
‘‘  W ell,  Marian,”  said  my  father,  “ look  there,  and  tell 
me  what  you  think.  Will  that  console  you  for  Pau- 
line’s inconsistent  conduct  ? ” 

It  was  a little  horse,  a whitish-bay  nag.  I never  was 
so  delighted  with  anything  in  my  life.  I suppose  I 
went  a little  wild,  for  such  a present  was  quite  beyond 
the  limit  of  my  expectations.  My  father  never  could 


112 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


have  afforded  it  if  it  had  not  come  in  payment  of  a 
debt  he  had  given  up.  for  lost.  He  said  he  was  satisfied, 
from  the  experiments  I had  made,  that  I could  become 
a good  rider  — for  all  Keller  laughed  at  me  so  much 
last  summer,  because  I could  not  leap  a Virginia  fence 
at  one  bound.  I never  had  half  a chance  to  learn,  for 
I could  only  ride  Don  Pedro  a few  minutes  in  the 
afternoon,  and  not  then  unless  it  was  “ a general  time 
of  health.”  A medical  horse  cannot  be  depended 
upon. 

But  when  I saw  this  nag,  didn’t  I give  my  father  a 
good  hugging?  And  didn’t  I take  the  beautiful  beast 
right  into  my  heart,  into  the  south-west  corner  of  it, 
near  the  fireplace?  You  are  aware.  Miss  Tottenham, 
it  is  having  things  for  your  very  own  that  brings  the 
love.  When  she  rolled  her  eyes  at  me,  and  I knew 
they  were  my  eyes,  I loved  every  winker  of  them. 
‘‘Fantine,”  said  I,  “come  to  my  arms!”  Fan  tine  was 
my  first  thought,  but  it  has  too  many  sad  associations 
connected  with  “ Les  Miserables.”  There  is  a certain 
airy,  sprightly  grace  about  my  little  horse,  which  sug- 
gests the  name  of  Zephyr,  and  Zephyr  it  shall  be.  Her 
color  is  generally  considered  a reddish-gray;  but  it 
isn’t ; it  is  roan.  I call  her  “ the  red-roan  steed,”  and 
the  dictionary  is  on  my  side.  Ah,  if  I had  only  had 
her  a month  ago,  before  this  heartache  came  to  be 
chronic  ! Her  dear  little  hoofs  can't  trample  down 
Cuba;  and  I can  never  be  happy  as  long  as  Cuba’s 
liead  is  above  water. 

October  9.  I can’t  stop  looking  out  of  the  window 
at  those  golden-violet  mountains.  I’ve  just  had  a 
horseback  ride  thrcugh  Paradise  Lane,  and  almost 


THE  MO  THEE- WANT 


113 


know  how  Mr.  Tennant  felt  when  he  came  out  of  that 
trance,  and  didn’t  want  to  speak  to  anybody,  lest  he 
should  lose  sight  of  the  wonderful  vision.  Why,  Miss 
Tottenham, 

The  world  grows  sweeter  than  a heart  can  bear.” 

If  I hadn’t  laughed  so  much  at  Judith  all  the  way,  it 
seems  as  if  I should  just  have  exhaled  with  ecstasy  over 
those  glorious  old  trees;  for  ‘‘Autumn  has  lighted  his 
fire  in  the  wood,”  and  every  tree  is  a torch  of  a differ- 
ent color.  But  Judith  does  sit  a horse  like  a bouncing 
rubber  ball.  I could  think  of  nothing  but  Naomi  Gid- 
dings  and  the  calf.  Robert  kept  saying,  “ Old  woman, 
old  woman,  O,  whither  so  high  ? ” Her  horse  was  that 
dead-and-alive  thing  of  Mr.  Lis  corn’s,  that  couldn’t  be 
coaxed  out  of  a creep  if  you  fired  a gun  at  his  heels ; 
but  Judith  was  so  afraid  of  being  thrown,  that  when 
we  were  going  single  file  through  Paradise  Lane,  she 
made  Robert  ride  backward,  so  he  could  watch  the 
creature’s  head,  while  I kept  an  eye  on  his  tail.  My 
father  prescribes  horseback  riding  for  Judith ; but  I 
should  think  it  would  give  her  an  ague-cake  like  Mrs. 
Page’s,  she  doubles  herself  up  in  such  a heap.  Robert 
is  as  tender  of  her  as  if  she  were  his  own  grandmother. 
I wonder  how  much  patience  Keller  would  have  with 
me,  rocking  round  at  such  a rate. 

Robert  laughs  at  the  name  Zephyr.  “ If  you  refer 
to  her  breathing,”  said  he,  “you’d  better  call  her 
North-easter,  and  not  mince  the  matter.” 

Now  that’s  too  bad,  for  he  means  “heaves,”  a kind 
of  horse’s  asthma.  But  it  is  a mistake ; my  father  has 
never  observed  it.  It’s  only  when  she  runs.  But  if 
8 


114 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


Robert  once  gets  an  idea  fixed  in  his  mind,  you  needn’t 
try  to  argue  with  him. 

There  is  something  I’ve  seen  for  myself,  but  I am 
careful  not  to  mention  it.  She  has  a sore  foot,  and 
tries  to  favor  it.  I can’t  tell  which  one  it  is,  though, 
for  they  all  seem  to  be  tender.  When  I saw  her  begin 
to  limp,  to-day,  I talked  as  fast  as  I could,  to  take  up 
Robert’s  attention. 

“ Let’s  stop  and  collect  some  specimens,”  said  I,  for 
he  is  crazy  about  bugs. 

So  we  alighted  in  the  loveliest  spot,  beside  an  unu- 
sually sprightly  waterfall,  that  always  reminds  you  of 
Undine,  and  Robert  watered  Zephyr  as  carefully  as  a 
tender  flower.  But,  though  I hurried  with  all  my 
might,  and  brought  him  the  horridest  kind  of  a bug,  I 
wasn’t  quite  quick  enough ; he  was  taking  up  my 
dear  Zephyr’s  feet,  and  examining  them  one  by  one. 
Then  he  shook  his  head  over  them,  and  smiled  know- 
ingly. 

“ Her  shoes  don’t  fit,”  said  I. 

“Ahem!”  said  he. 

“Robert  Willard,  you  have  a spite  against  my  horse, 
and  have  had  from  the  beginning.  How  do  you  sup- 
pose the  dear  little  animal  enjoys  having  you  criticise 
her  feet,  and  feel  her  pulse,  and  examine  her  tongue  ? 
How  would  you  like  it  yourself?” 

“ O,  stop  quarrelling ! ” said  Judith,  “ I’m  so  tired ! ” 

And  Robert  had  to  sit  down  and  let  her  lean 
against  him,  while  the  most  charming  bug  specimens 
went  crawling  by,  and  he  couldn’t  get  at  them.  That’s 
the  way  she  does.  Think  of  my  making  a pillar,  or  pil- 
low, of  Keller,  and  his  sitting  still  and  allowing  it! 


!N  PARADISE  LANE.  Page  114. 


; t- 


THE  MOTHER-WANT, 


115 


Judith  isn’t  strong,  but  it  seems  to  me  she  might  brace 
herself  up  a little. 

Well,  I mustn’t  stay  here  writing  another  minute. 
Only  think  how  much  I am  losing!  I might  have  been 
with  mother  for  the  last  half  hour ! 

October  13.  Well,  it  is  all  over.  Mother  looked 
so  beautiful  in  her  travelling  dress,  and  so  full  of  ani- 
mation, that  it  seemed  like  a farce  her  going  away  for 
her  health.  You  would  have  taken  Pauline  for  the  in- 
valid, she  was  so  strongly  scented  with  lavender  on  ac- 
count of  breaking  the  bottle  in  her  pocket,  instead  of 
putting  it  in  her  satchel.  If  she  continues  so  absent- 
minded,  I am  afraid  mother  will  wish  I had  gone  in 
her  place. 

My  father  meant  to  accompany  them  as  far  as  Bos- 
ton; but  he  couldn’t  possibly  leave;  he  could  only 
drive  them  to'  Poonoosac  to  take  the  cars.  But  Mr. 
Loring  hadn’t  anything  under  the  sun  to  do  just  at  this 
time,  and  could  go  to  Boston  as  well  as  not ; and  did. 
I never  so  much  as  made  a single  remark  about  it. 
Give  me  credit  for  that.  Miss  Tottenham.  Indeed,  I 
had  all  I could  do  to  ‘‘  control  myself,  and  behave  like 
a woman.”  I am  afraid  I should  have  broken  down 
at  the  last,  if  mamma  hadn’t  said,  playfully,  — 

I ‘‘Marian,  I have  made  a will,  whereby  I bequeath  to 
you  your  father  and  Benjie.  Take  care  of  your  prop- 
erty, remember.” 

“I  don’t  like  a will,”  said  I,  “ unless  it  is  like  James 
Works’s,  where  the  one  that  makes  it  stays  round  and 
sees  to  it.” 

Thankful  was  there,  blowing  up  the  air-cushion,  and 
I fancied  didn’t  like  what  I said ; but  I never  can  really 


116 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


tell  how  she  takes  anything,  for  she  hides  behind  those 
green  glasses  like  a cat  under  the  table. 

I had  to  take  my  two  hands  off  mother  at  last ; and 
Thankful  pulled  Benjie  ^way,  just  after  he  had  kissed 
her  all  out  of  breath. 

“Thankful,”  said  dear  mamma,  — and  she  tried  to 
smile,  — “I  could  not  feel  as  easy  as  I do  about  leaving 
home,  if  it  were  not  for  you.  It  isn’t  everybody  I could 
trust  not  to  desert  my  little  family.” 

Thankful  “turned  on  her  tears,”  and  said  she  “hoped 
mother  hadn’t  known  her  all  this  time,  to  doubt  her 
now.  A woman  that  had  been  through  as  much  as  she 
had  with  Josiah  was  glad  enough  of  a good  steady 
home,  and  wasn’t  likely  to  change  her  situation.” 

It  was  a singular  time  for  the  memoir;  but  Tom 
handed  the  reins  to  my  father,  and  that  cut  it  short. 
Mother  leaned  back  against  the  cushioil,  never  taking 
her  eyes  off  Benjie  and  me.  Pauline  said,  “ Marian,  re- 
member to  write ; ” and  then  Don  Pedro  started  off, 
pulling  at  the  reins,  and  at  the  cords  of  my  heart  too. 
I watched  the  carryall  as  long  as  I could  see  the  little 
window  behind,  for  it  seemed  like  an  eye  looking  back 
at  us  lovingly. 

I just  dreaded  to  go  into  the  house,  there  was  such  a 
“ mother-want  ” all  over  it  from  chamber  to  cellar.  I 
went  up  to  the  attic,  but  actually  it  seemed  just  as  be- 
reaved as  the  bed-room,  though  I don’t  know  that 
mother  has  set  her  foot  in  it  for  a year.  I wandered  out 
to  the  bam ; but  I missed  her  there  just  as  much  as  if 
she  were  in  the  habit  of  hunting  hens’  eggs  with  me 
every  day  of  her  life. 

I was  going  to  have  a look  at  my  “ red-roan  steed,” 


THE  MOTHER-WANT, 


117 


but  overheard  Robert,  in  the  stable,  telling  Tom^  some- 
thing about  her  feet  needing  a wash  of  castile  soap  and 
some  kind  of  bark.  As  if  my  Zephyr  had  dirtier  feet 
than  other  horses ! Doesn’t  she  walk  on  the  same  kind 
of  a road  ? 

What  we  shall  do  at  our  house  I don’t  know. 
Thankful  looks  like  a tombstone,  and  talks  like  an 
epitaph.  I feel  as  if  I were  chief  mourner  at  some- 
body’s funeral.  That  solemn  motto  over  my  looking- 
glass  is  really  consoling,  — 

“ Think  that  To-day  shall  never  dawn  again.” 

I should  go  distracted  if  it  should ! 

Judith  came  over  with  some  novels.  She  says  they 
will  soothe  me  like  chloroform.  Judith  forgets  that  I 
never  read  a book  without  my  father’s  approval,  — a 
book  of  that  sort,  I mean. 

‘‘  When  you  are  out  of  your  teens,  daughter  Marian, 
you  may  choose  for  yourself ; but  until  then  I really 
think  you  are  safer  to  be  guided  by  your  mother 
and  me.” 

Is  he  too  notional?  Sometimes  I think  so.  One 
thing  is  sure ; I get  precious  few  novels  to  read.  He 
intends  to  bring  me  up  on  history  and  the  natural 
sciences,  with  a sprinkling  of  poetry,  and  now  and  then 
a romance  thrown  in.  Well,  I am  determined  to  hon- 
or my  parents;  and  I wish  Keller  would.  ‘‘By  the 
way,”  as  he  says,  what  has  that  boy  been  writing  to 
Thankful  about?  I brought  her  the  letter  myself,  and 
she  coolly  put  it  in  her  pocket. 

It  was  so  lonesome  all  day  that  I let  Benjie  whittle 
a steamboat,  and  paint  it,  right  in  the  sitting-room. 


118 


THE  DOCTOR* S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘  You  couldn’t  have  done  that  if  Pauline  had  been  at 
at  home,”  said  I. 

“No,  you  bet!  Pauline  knows  better’n  to  let  me!” 
said  the  ungrateful  child.  Benjie  must  stop  talking 
slang,  or  I shall  have  to  shut  him  up  in  the  closet. 

October  14.  My  father  didn’t  get  home  till  night,  so 
many  typhoid  cases  all  along  the  road.  The  sitting- 
room  looked  as  if  it  were  going  to  ride  out.  His  eyes 
roved  all  around,  and  a gloomy  look  came  into  them. 
I sprang  up,  and  swept  the  shavings  into  the  fire. 

“ How  did  mother  seem  when  you  left  her  ? Did 
she  send  any  message  to  me  ? ” 

“ She  bore  up  very  cheerfully,  and  her  message  was, 
‘Tell  Marian  not  to  forget  my  legacy.’  You  see, 
daughter,”  said  my  father,  drawing  me  down  to  his 
knee,  “this  will  try  us,  and  show  what  stufi*  we’re 
made  of.” 

“Yes,  father,  Pye  been  in  a furnace  all  day.” 

And  so  I had  been.  Miss  Tottenham.  And  there  I 
have  staid  ever  since. 


DULL  DATS, 


119  • 


CHAPTER  XV. 


DULL  DAYS. 


Miss  Tottenham, 


October  15. 


SHOULD  think  Pauline  had  eaten  a lotus-berry, 


write  ? Mr.  Loring  did  more  than  his  duty,  for 
he  went  as  far  as  Xew  York,  and  saw  the  travellers 
safely  on  board  the  mail  steamer  Cahawba.  There 
they  met  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Prince,  according  to  agreement. 
Mamma  was  as  bright  and  brave  as  when  she  left  our 
door,  and  said  the  sea  air  was  giving  her  new  life. 
The  state-room  windows  are  very  high,  and  she  can 
have  a breeze  all  night,  if  she  likes.  They  started  on 
the  12th,  and  would  reach  Havana  in  six  days. 

Of  course  there  has  not  been  time  for  a letter.  I 
see  it  now  that  I have  put  down  the  dates  in  black 
and  white.  I am  like  Keller;  he  says  he  ‘‘gets  con- 
siderable information  fi*om  hearing  himself  talk.” 

The  dull  days  drizzle  along.  It  is  pleasant  at 
school ; but  I don’t  like  to  come  home,  unless  I bring 
some  of  the  girls.  My  father  talks  heroically  about 
“rising  superior  to  circumstances;”  but  I haven’t  ob- 
served that  he  is  particularly  jolly.  Why  is  it  that 
women  are  always  missed  so  much  more  than  men? 


and  forgotten  all  about  home.  Why  dosen’t  she 


120 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


When  my  father  is  gone,  mother  keeps  on  regularly 
with  whatever  she  is  doing,  and  is  as  tranquil  as  ever ; 
whereas  if  she  herself  is  gone  for  only  a day,  my  father 
seems  to  be  thrown  off  his  balance.  He  was  in  the 
habit  of  reading  aloud  to  her  in  the  evening ; but  it  is 
not  worth  while  to  read  to  me.  I cannot  understand 
Carlyle,  or  Emerson,  or  Browning,  or  any  of  those  men 
that  talk  with  their  mouths  full.  Moreover  I am  al- 
ways gone.  I wish  I had  kept  an  account  of  the  num- 
ber of  times  my  father  has  said,  — 

“It  seems  strange  here  without  your  mother  — 
doesn’t  it?” 

Or,  “We  see  now  who  it  was  that  made  our  home 
so  pleasant.” 

And  then  he  gets  his  dressing-gown  and  goes  off  to 
his  study,  for  we  have  fallen  in  the  way  of  not  having 
a fire  in  the  sitting-room  evenings.  That  was  Pauline’s 
business.  She  always  attended  to  the  front  part  of  the 
house;  and  perhaps  Thankful  thinks  I might  do  it 
now ; but  the  mornings  are  very  short,  and  I don’t  like 
to  lose  my  horseback  ride.  Thankful  digs  into  the 
carpet  at  if  she  were  sub-soiling  it ; but  she  makes  the 
chairs  and  tete-a-tetes  stand  up  against  the  wall  like 
total  strangers  come  visiting.  The  sitting-room  does 
not  look  natural.  I wish  Thankful  showed  more  grace 
in  arrangement.  Now,  Pauline  and  mother  are  always 
moving  the  furniture  about,  and  giving  a touch  here 
and  a touch  there,  like  an  artist  painting  a picture. 
But  poor  Thankful  means  well.  I am  not  blaming  her. 

I am  sorry  to  see  that  my  father  has  less  and  less 
patience  with  her  pocket-handkerchief.  It  come  out 
regularly  now,  just  after  breakfist.  Strange  she  hasn’t 


DULL  DATS, 


121 


learned  by  this  time  that  my  father  despises  the  sight 
of  tears.  She  told  me  the  other  day  she  had  “ some- 
thing on  her  mind ; ” but  so  she  has  had  ever  since  I 
knew  her.  She  grows  neater  than  ever,  and  has  pos- 
itively taken  to  mopping  the  barn  floor!  I wonder 
what  the  horses  think ! Perhaps  they  are  as  homesick 
out  there  as  we  are  in  the  house.  My  father  hopes 
she  won’t  scour  the  bark  off  the  trees  in  the  yard,  like 
the  Dutch  wives  of  Broeck. 

Benjie  behaves  awfully,  always  teasing  and  hanging 
on  to  my  skirts.  Marie  Smith  teaches  a private  school 
in  the  Probate  Office ; but  he  dosen’t  go  half  the  time, 
on  account  of  stiff  necks,  sore  thumbs,  toothaches,  ear- 
aches, lame  ankles,  and  frogs  in  the  throat.  There 
isn’t  an  inch  in  his  body  that  hasn’t  ached  more  or  less 
since  Marie  began  that  school.  Mother  wouldn’t  mind 
his  little  whimseys ; but  my  father  laughs,  and  allows 
him  to  stay  at  home.  The  rest  of  us  were  ruled  with 
a rod  of  iron.  Why,  at  Benjie’s  age  I didn’t  dare 
wink.  I used  to  think  children  were  as  easily  trained 
as  pea-vines;  but  I don’t  think  so  now;  I have  to 
coax  or  drive  that  boy  to  bed  every  night,  so  I can  go 
and  spend  the  evening  with  Judith.  If  I left  him  up, 
he  would  be  up  when  I came  back;  for  Thankful  is 
very  weak  about  Benjie,  and  has  no  more  authority 
than  a fly. 

October  25.  A letter  from  Pauline.  My  father 
tried  to  appear  stoical;  but  I could  see  he  was  as 
eager  as  I was,  though  he  did  not  dance ! Mamma 
is  quite  comfortable ; ” that  was  the  very  first  line. 
The  journey  scarcely  fatigued  her.  She  was  interested 
in  sea,  and  sky,  and  people ; but  poor  Pauline  felt  very 


122 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


sick,  especially  while  crossing  the  Gulf  Stream.  There 
it  grew  suddenly  rough,  and  the  ocean  much  warmer, 
as  if  hot  water  were  being  poured  in.  Strange  that  the 
Gulf  Stream  never  will  unite  with  the  Atlantic  Ocean, 
but  holds  itself  aloof,  as  if  it  belonged  to  another  family. 
I should  just  enjoy  cantering  on  its  back.  It  must  seem 
like  a wild  animal  no  man  can  tame.  And  those  se- 
rene moonlight  nights  at  sea,  with  the  soft  trade-wind 
clouds  sailing  across  the  sky;  how  mamma  must  have 
revelled  in  them!  for  she  feels  the  beautiful,  just  as  if 
it  were  God  himself  speaking  to  her. 

Pauline  remarked  that  the  Southern  Cross  was  to  be 
seen  just  above  the  horizon ; so  it  seems  she  still  re- 
members to  look  at  the  stars.  Havana  is  built  close  to 
the  sea;  and  when  they  came  in  sight  of  it,  she  grew 
dreadfully  homesick.  The  idea  of  being  homesick 
where  mother  is!  I ought  to  have  been  the  one  to 
go.  The  flag  of  Spain  was  a distressing  sight  to  her 
eyes.  It  is  very  gaudy,  with  red  and  yellow  stripes, 
and  glares  over  the  Moro  Lighthouse  like  a torch. 
Well,  what  if  it  does?  She  says  the  blue,  and  white, 
and  yellow  houses,  with  red  roofs,  are  not  like  New 
England.  I should  think  she  would  be  glad  of  it. 
What  is  the  use  to  go  so  far  from  home,  if  you  can’t 
see  something  new? 

At  Havana  they  parted  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Prince, 
who  went  on  to  New  Orleans,  as  they  had  intended; 
but  Dr.  Ware  was  at  Havana,  on  the  lookout  for  the 
Cahawba;  and  he  came  from  the  wharf  in  a boat  to 
meet  mother  and  Pauline.  Very  kind  ^f  him;  but  I 
cannot  forget  that  he  has  no  hope  of  mother,  and  tlie 
very  sound  of  his  name  is  disagreeable  to  me. 


DULL  DATS. 


123 


He  took  them  to  a fine  hotel,  where  the  walls  are  so 
high  that  you  need  a spy-glass  to  see  a fly  on  the  ceil- 
ing. They  rode  in  a volante,  and  the  black  driver  rode 
too,  on  the  horse’s  back.  There’s  laziness!  Pauline 
says  the  streets  are  so  narrow  that  you  go  very  close 
to  the  houses,  and  can  look  in  through  the  glassless 
windows  and  see  what  the  people  are  doing. 

Mamma  was  sadly  disappointed  because  Madame 
Almy  could  not  receive  them  at  once ; but  as  I said 
before,  Dr.  Ware  took  them  to  an  elegant  hotel,  the 
Le  Grand,  where  they  will  remain  a few  days.  Pauline 
likes  the  breakfasts  — delicious  fruits ; fish  with  all  the 
colors  of  the  rainbow;  various  other  dainties,  and  — 
fried  plantains.  (She  didn’t  say  whether  they  had  any 
fried  smart-weed !) 

How  I wish  I were  in  Cuba!  It  is  so  commonplace 
at  home!  Ladies  there  do  not  walk  in  the  streets; 
and  when  they  go  riding,  it  is  in  full  dress,  with  flow- 
ers, jewels,  fans,  &c.,  but  no  bonnets.  They  never  pre- 
tend to  go  shopping ; the  shops  go  to  them ; that  is,  the 
clerks  carry  out  goods  to  the  doors  of  the  carriages, 
and  the  dainty  ladies  buy  what  pleases  them. 

I can  imagine  dear  mother  riding  through  those 
streets  as  pale  as  a northern  snow-drop,  and  Dr.  Ware 
smiling  blandly,  with  hand  on  vest  pocket,  ready  at  a 
moment’s  notice  to  whip  out  a bottle  of  some  sort  of 
reviving  drops.  He  went  there  for  his  health  as  much 
as  she  did,  and,  for  all  I can  see,  is  just  as  likely  to  die. 
He  has  such  a beam  in  his  own  eye,  how  can  he  see 
the  mote  in  mother’s  ? 

And  I can  imagine  Pauline  sitting  up  in  the  volante 
with  her  high-bred  air.  The  postilion  would  probably 


124 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


take  her  for  a Spanish  lady,  on  account  of  her  brown 
eyes  and  dark  complexion,  only  she  had  no  ball-dress 
and  fan. 

November  5.  I have  had  six  little  tea-parties. 
Miss  O’Neil  came  to  three.  Once  the  “verbal  music” 
attracted  her,  and  twice  it  didn’t.  I enjoy  my  “ young 
mates  ” better  when  Pauline  is  not  here  to  criticize. 

November  6.  It  seems  to  take  James  Works  a long 
time  to  execute  that  will.  I seldom  go  into  the  kitchen 
of  an  evening  but  I see  him  leaning  against  the  sink. 
His  conversation  must  be  very  edifying.  I heard  him 
tell  Thankful  about  a red  cow  of  his  that  was 
“breachy.”  “I  mean  to  turn  her  into  another  cow,” 
said  he,  “and  then  beef  her.”  That  may  be  the 
English  language.  Miss  Tottenham,  but  it  does  not 
sound  like  it.  Last  night,  when  Thankful  was  taking 
the  apple-butter  off  the  stove,  he  said,  in  pompous 
tones,  “ Shall  I render  you  some  assistance  ? ” But  she 
had  the  kettle  off  and  the  stove-cover  on  before  he 
took  his  hands  out  of  his  pockets. 

I wish  Thankful  would  not  talk  so  much  about  our 
family  affairs.  She  asked  me  the  other  day  if  it  was 
not  very  expensive  having  mother  and  Pauline  in 
Cuba,  and  Keller  at  boarding-school.  I told  her  it 
probably  was;  but  I hoped  she  wouldn’t  take  it  to 
heart,  as  she  had  just  as  many  troubles  of  her  own  as 
she  could  possibly  bear. 

“ So  I have,”  sighed  she ; “ I have  been  singled  out 
for  affliction  from  my  youth  up.  But  perhaps  your  fa- 
ther’s business  affairs  concern  me  more  than  you  think. 
Being  a widow  so,  I have  to  look  out  for  myselff’ 

I cannot  imagine  what  she  means.  If  her  wages  are 


DULL  DATS, 


125 


paid  regularly,  isn’t  she  “looked  out  for”  enough? 
Perhaps  she  might  feel  easier  if  she  knew  of  the  five 
hundred  dollars,  in  government  bonds,  which  aunt 
Hinsdale  gave  me  for  my  name.  Thankful  is  naturally 
low-spirited,  but  I never  knew  her  so  low  as  this.  My 
father  says  her  eyes  are  a couple  of  water-sluices  in 
excellent  repair.  What  can  be  the  matter?  I wonder 
if  she  feels  grieved  by  my  thoughtlessness?  Mother 
never  asked  her  to  mend  the  clothes  from  the  wash, 
not  even  Benjie’s,  for  her  eyes  are  weak  (as  might  be 
expected) ! But  I can’t  remember  to  take  a needle 
in  hand  till  Saturday  night  about  bed-time,  when 
of  course  the  mending  is  all  done.  She  loves  me 
dearly,  and  thinks  all  my  faults  are  very  excusable; 
but  perhaps  she  is  overwhelmed  by  my  giving  so 
many  tea  and  dinner-parties  — more  than  a dozen,  I 
declare.  She  is  considered  the  best  cook  in  Quinne- 
basset;  and  it  taxes  her  ingenuity  to  get  up  new 
dishes,  I suppose.  I have  had  Judith  and  Marie  every 
noon  regularly,  and  yesterday  asked  Oscaforia  and 
Sarah  Hinsdale,  because  I happened  to  meet  them  on 
the  street,  and  forgot  entirely  that  Thankful  was  down 
with  sick-headache.  It  did  seem  rather  cruel,  and  the 
dear  soul  felt  so  mortified  about  the  burnt  pudding- 
sauce,  that  I asked  her  forgiveness,  and  gave  her  moth- 
er’s purple  breakfast  shawl.  My  father  said  I might; 
he  dislikes  purple.  He  asked  me  yesterday  if  I wasn’t 
afraid  Thankful  worked  too  hard.  I have  decided  to 
invite  no  more  company  for  the  present ; but  really  it 
is  Thankful’s  own  fault  that  I pine  for  society.  If  she 
were  not  here,  I verily  believe  I should  not  be  so  lone- 
some. 


126 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


A NEW  RESOLVE. 


Miss  Tottenham. 


November  15. 


jX^^AULINE  writes  that  they  are  comfortably  es- 


much.  Mother  was  annoyed  at  the  Le  Grand 
by  not  having  a bed  to  sleep  on ; nothing  but  sacking, 
without  a mattress.  She  heard  clocks  striking  the 
quarter  hours  all  night,  and  watchmen  blowing  whis- 
tles, and  crying  serenos  ” at  every  stroke,  all  of  which 
disturbed  her  rest.  Pauline  says  she  is  really  gaining 
now.  Isn’t  it  glorious  ? Dr.  W are  does  not  improve, 
and  has  gone  to  Matanzas.  Just  as  I expected! 

Last  night  I went  to  the  sink  to  get  some  water  for 
my  plants,  having  forgotten  them  in  the  morning,  and 
Thankful  began  about  my  father’s  heavy  expenses 
again,  and  asked  me  if  I had  never  been  afraid  Keller 
might  run  in  debt.  Boys  often  do  at  school,  she  says. 
“ But  there  is  this  about  it,”  she  added,  as  if  to  comfort 
me ; “ if  he  should  run  in  debt,  your  father  is  an  honor- 
able man,  and  would  feel  responsible,  you  may  be  sure 
of  that.” 

I could  not  see  what  interest  she  should  have  in  the 


tablished  at  Madame  Almy’s,  and  like  very 


A NEW  RESOL  VE. 


127 


question,  or  what  satisfaction  she  could  take  in  con- 
juring up  such  absurd  notions  ; but  I merely  said, — 

“ O,  yes ; my  father  is  sure  to  do  the  right  thing, 
whatever  it  is.” 

“ That  is  what  I always  tell  folks,”  cried  she ; he’s  a 
good,  pious  man,  if  he  does  speculate  so  much  in  real 
estate ; and  when  your  sister  is  married,  there’ll  be  one 
less  to  provide  for.” 

I didn’t  say  a word ; it  was  such  a shock  to  hear  her 
speak  of  Pauline’s  being  married.  I had  never  thought 
of  it  before,  not  definitely — still,  I suppose  it  will  come 
to  that  in  time  — one  of  these  years.  Well,  Pauline  is 
very  much  mistaken  if  she  thinks  she  can  ever  be  as 
happy  anywhere  else  as  she  is  at  home.  How  can 
she  bear  the  thought  of  leaving  her  father  and 
mother  ? 

“Yes;  you  see  there’ll  be  one  less  to  provide  for,” 
said  Thankful ; “ and  your  father’s  expenses  won’t  be  so 
heavy;  so  I tell  folks  it’s  no  use  to  borrow  trouble. 
Do  you  suppose  your  sister’ll  marry,  come  another 
spring  ? ” 

“ My  sister  has  never  spoken  of  being  married  at  all, 
and  it  is  a subject  I do  not  think  proper  to  discuss,” 
said  I,  with  some  dignity. 

But  Thankful  only  sniffed,  and  said, — 

. “ Haven’t  I got  a pair  of  eyes  in  my  head  ? Can’t  I 
see  who  comes  to  this  house  ? ” 

“Perhaps  you  mean  Mr.  Works,  of  Poonoosac,” 
said  I ; “he  is  here  oftener  than  any  one  else.” 

Tliankful  sighed  heavily  at  that. 

“James  Works  was  my  husband’s  own  brother,” 
said  she.  “ It  is  a pity  if  he  can’t  come  here  to  see  me 


128 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


on  business,  without  people  in  the  village  making  re- 
marks.” 

‘‘  I never  heard  it  mentioned,”  said  I. 

O,  but  it  is  in  everybody’s  mouth,  child.  His  be- 
ing a widower  so,  makes  it  very  unpleasant  for  me,”  said 
she,  going  into  her  pocket  handkerchief.  ‘‘He  has 
been  here  on  very  solemn  business  lately,  I can  assure 
you.  I have  been  having  Josiah  taken  up  and  put  in 
the  new  graveyard  at  Poonoosac.” 

Then  she  fell  to  crying  so  hard  that  I could  not  im- 
agine what  it  was  for,  knowing  it  certainly  Wasn’t  for 
grief,  till  she  broke  forth  very  spitefully,  — 

“ I declare  for  it,  there  isn’t  the  least  honor  among 
sextons.  I paid  Mr.  Black  handsomely  for  taking  up 
Josiah;  but  I’ve  no  idea  I got  more  than  half  of 
him ! ” 

“Why,  Thankful  Works!”  said  I,  trying  my  best 
not  to  smile. 

“ No,  I really  don’t  think  I got  more  than  half.  I’d 
be  willing  to  leave  it  out  to  anybody  if  it  wasn’t  a very 
small  mess  of  bones  for  a man  of  his  size.” 

It  was  such  a singular  thing  to  show  temper  about ! 
and  she  looked  so  dreadfully  indignant  that  I .hurried 
off  as  fast  as  possible,  shaking  so  that  half  the  water 
from  the  sprinkler  ran  into  my  slipper.  When  I 
reached  the  sitting-room,  I told  my  father  how  Thank- 
ful had  been  imposed  upon  in  the  matter  of  bones,  and 
he  laughed  heartily,  for  the  first  time,  I believe,  since 
mother  went  away. 

“ Thankful’s  strong  point  is  her  indignation,”  said  he. 

Then  he  repeated  a letter,  word  for  word,  which  she 


A NEW  RESOLVE. 


129 


once  wrote  her  brother-in-law,  beginning,  “ Indignation 
still  burns  in  the  bosom  of  myself,”  &c. 

“But  she  has  forgiven  James  Works  since  he  gave 
back  the  thirds,”  said  I;  “and  they  are  the  best  of 
friends.  He  is  as  interested  in  her  as  an  own  brother.” 

November  18.  My  work-box  happened  to  be  sitting 
on  the  stairs  yesterday,  and  Benjie  fell  over  it  head- 
long. Thankful  decided  that  his  knee  was  broken,  and 
we  laid  him  screaming  on  the  sofa  to  await  my  father’s 
return.  How  I longed  for  mother ! It  was  a season 
of  great  remorse  and  anxiety  for  me,  till  Jowler  hap- 
pened to  come  into  the  room  with  a stick  in  his  mouth, 
when  Benjie  jumped  up  and  ran  after  him.  My  fears 
subsided  then.  All  the  little  boys  in  town  heard  of  the 
fearful  accident,  and  came  with  their  dogs  to  make  visits 
of  condolence  — very  good  for  lameness.  The  more 
boys,  the  less  limping.  Benjie  is  trying  hard  this  even- 
ing to  save  ui>  a little  stiffness  against  to-morrow,  just 
enough  to  keep  him  out  of  school.  No  doubt  he’ll  suc- 
ceed. I’ll  put  him  to  bed  now,  and  go  to  Judith’s. 

November  19.  Robert  came  in  this  morning  with  a 
beaming  face. 

“ Where  is  your  father  ? ” cried  he ; “ I’ve  found  a 
live  — ” 

There,  I forget  the  name ; but  it’s  something  that 
crawls. 

Thankful  says,  “ It  does  beat  all  how  folks  can  have 
their  minds  taken  uj3  with  such  small  concerns.”  I 
thought  of  that  very  thing  myself  when  I saw  her  cry 
about  the  j)udding  sauce. 

November  20.  Mother  has  written  two  precious 
9 


130 


THE  DOCTOR^S  DAUGHTER. 


letters  to  my  father.  She  still  improves,  and  would 
be  very  happy  if  she  had  us  all  with  her.  She  says,  — 

“ Tell  dear  little  Marian  to  take  good  care  of  my 
legacy.  Her  task  is  no  light  one ; but  we  do  not  ex- 
pect or  ask  for  our  child  an  easy  time  in  the  world,  and 
it  may  be  as  well  for  her  to  learn  young  the  lesson . 
that  ‘with  self-renunciation  begins  life.’  I hope  she 
remembers  that  even  Christ  pleased  not  himself.” 

No,  dear  mamma,  I had  not  remembered  it ! I,  who 
once  thought  I was  trying  to  be  like  him ! I want  to 
hide  my  face  for  shame. 

“ With  self-renunciation  begins  life.”  I am  sure 
Carlyle  said  that,  for  the  words  are  put  together  in  the 
hardest  way.  But  what  does  it  mean?  Why,  that 
we  must  put  self  one  side  before  we  can  really  live. 
Self,  self,  get  thee  behind  me ! 

Dear  mamma  pities  me,  and  thinks  I am  wearing 
myself  out  for  the  family ; and  here  I am,  floating  about 
like  a great  lazy  butterfly. 

My  father  said  in  his  prayer  this  morning,  “ Teach  us 
how  sublime  a thing  it  is  to  live.” 

‘ Yes,  there  is  such  a thing  as  making  one’s  life 
sublime,  — for  instance,  mother;  and  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  making  it  ridiculous, — for  instance,  Marian. 

Papa,  you  shall  not  spend  all  your  evenings  alone. 
Thankful,  you’ll  do  no  more  mending.  Benjie,  you 
needn’t  go  to  bed  with  the  chickens.  Poor  little 
fellow,  is  it  your  own  sister  Mamie  that  has  abused 
you  so  ? 

Into  the  writing-desk.  Miss  Tottenham.  I wish  to 
have  a little  private  conversation  with  myself. 


BRIGHTENING  THE  HOUSE. 


131 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


BRIGHTENING  THE  HOUSE. 


Miss  Tottenham. 

November  25. 

DO  believe  there  is  no  satisfaction  equal  to  that 


ter  came,  I aroused  myself,  and  determined  to 


take  my  true  place  as  the  daughter  of  the  house. 
Xot  that  I expected  anything  particular  would  come 
of  it,  or  that  anybody  would  observe  it;  I hope  I 
am  more  genuine  than  that ! I merely  meant,  as  'I'hank- 
ful  says  in  prayer-meeting,  to  “ do  my  duty  as  far  forth 
as  I know  how.” 

Firstly,  I announced  to  Mrs.  Works  that  I intended 
to  take  care  of  the  front  part  of  the  house. 

‘‘Well,”  said  she,  coolly,  “you’ll  find  the  broom  in 
the  cellar-way.” 

I labored  over  the  sitting-room  till  it  seemed  like  it- 
self, and  the  pieces  of  furniture  looked  as  if  they  were 
acquainted  with  one  another  once  more.  Then  Zephyr 
and  I galloped  through  Paradise  Lane,  and  gathered 
boughs  of  late  autumn  leaves  to  light  up  the  walls  of 
the  ]-oom,  and  give  a warm  tone  to  the  pictures  and 
statues.  But  real  heat  we  must  have  too ; for  I was 


of  acting  from  high  motives.  After  mother’s  let- 


132 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


determined  to  lure  papa  away  from  that  old  office.  I 
was  just  lighting  the  fire  when  Judith  walked  in. 

“ O,  dear ! ” said  she ; ‘‘  why  haven’t  you  been  over  ? 
I didn’t  feel  able  to  come,  and  it  has  put  me  all  out  of 
breath.” 

“ My  father  says  the  women  of  this  age  are  ‘ born 
fatigued,’  ” said  I ; “ and  of  all  the  tired  specimens,  you 
are  the  tiredest,  Miss  Judith.  I didn’t  go  to  your 
house,  because  I had  work  to  do.  Benjie’s  all  out  at 
elbows,  and  I found  a hole  in  the  hall  carpet,  and  — ” 
“Why,  Marian,  it  would  kill  me  to  work  at  such  a 
rate.  Your  face  is  the  color  of  that  blush  rose.  Just 
look  in  the  glass,  and  see  if  it  isn’t.  What  possesses 
you,  all  of  a sudden  ? ” 

“ O,  I’m  trying  to  make  it  look  natural  and  pleasant 
for  Keller  when  he  comes  home  to  Thanksgiving.” 
That  really  was  one  little  reason  fioating  on  top ; 
but  the  solid  reason  underneath  was,  that  I was  trying 
to  do  right.  You  know  our  deepermost  motives  are  the 
very  ones  we  can’t  tell. 

“Do  these  andirons  look  bright  enough,  Jude?” 

“ Gay  as  gold,”  said  she.  “ I like  your  brass-topped 
fender  and  your  pictorial  bellows  beyond  everything. 
This  is  just  the  cosiest  house  in  town.” 

“Yes,”  said  I;  “only  Thankful  has  cried  so  much  that 
the  walls  feel  damp,  and  we  need  a roaring  fire.” 

“You  wouldn’t  complain  of  Thankful,  if  you  had  to 
iive  with  aunt  Esther,”  said  Judith.  “She  has  turned 
our  house  into  a regular  rag-factory,  and  is  making 
^ drawn-in  ’ rugs  out  of  our  old  clothes.  I’m  so  glad 
Robert  won’t  let  me  sew,  or  I should  be  kept  at  it  all 


MARIAN  AND  JUDITH.  Page  133. 


BRIGHTENING  THE  HOUSE. 


133 


day,  like  Tid  and  Mate.  Just  think  how  stupid  it  is 
for  me,  Marian ! Tid  and  Mate  pair  off,  you  know,  and 
I don’t  have  much  to  do  with  them,  and  the  little  boys 
are  only  a trial,  and  father  stays  at  the  store  most  of 
the  time.  If  it  wasn’t  for  Robert,  I should  just  die. 
He  is  the  only  one  in  the  house  that  tries  to  make 
things  comfortable.” 

I wanted  to  say,  “Why  don’t  you  try  yourself?” 
But  I won’t  preach,  so  there ! Let  me  practise  a while 
first.  While  I brushed  the  hearth,  Judith  lay  back  on 
the  sofa  with  half-shut  eyes,  and  I asked  what  she  was 
dreaming  about. 

“ O,”  said  she,  “ if  we  could  only  make  the  eWorld 
over  again,  how  beautiful  it  might  be!  We  would 
leave  out  all  the  disagreeables,  such  as  east  winds,  and 
rain-storms,  and  ‘ equinomical  ’ peojDle ; and  we’d  pre- 
serve the  roses  and  zephyrs,  and  rainbows  and  good 
times.  I’m  going  to  live  with  my  Reginald  in  a castle 
by  the  sea,  with  opal  sunsets  dipping  into  the  blue 
waves ; and  there’ll  be  none  of  the  trials  of  life  coming 
to  beat  against  the  walls.  He  will  be  a poet-laureate, 
with  a wreath  of  amaranth  round  his  brow.” 

“Brown  paper  and  vinegar  will  be  better,  Jude,  if 
he’s  troubled  with  headache.” 

“ Hush,  Marian  1 And  he  will  adore  me  as  your 
father  does  your  mother.” 

“I  can’t  see  any  earthly  reason  why  he  should,” 
cried  I.  And  then  we  fell  into  a fit  of  laughing ; and 
in  the  midst  of  it,  my  father  stalked  through  the  room, 
which  mortified  Judith  so  much  that  she  slipped  out  by 
the  side  door  and  went  home.  If  we  ever  do  get  to 
laughing  in  that  absurd  way  and  can’t  stop,  my 


134 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


father  is  sure  to  appear,  with  a preternaturally  solemn 
face,  and  say  something  sarcastic  about  the  giggling 
age.” 

Tliis  time  he  was  so  tired,  after  a hard  ride,  that  he 
scarcely  spoke  till  he  had  had  a cup  of  tea.  Then,  after 
a remark  to  Benjie  on  the  subject  of  jackknives,  he  went 
into  the  sitting-room  again  on  his  way  to  the  office.  Now, 
my  father  isn’t  a man  that  observes  things  in  detail ; he 
couldn’t  have  told  what  I had  been  doing  to  the  room ; 
but  he  saw  that  the  general  effect  was  different,  and 
his  face  lighted  up  wonderfully. 

‘‘So  you’ve  been  cleaning  house,  daughter.  And 
you’ve  set  the  fire  to  blazing  again.  Well,  that’s  pleas- 
ant. O,  you’re  expecting  company  — are  you?” 

“No,  papa;  don’t  be  frightened;  nobody  but  you.  I 
built  the  fire  for  the  rheumatic  old  flies.  I see  they 
wake  up  stiff  in  the  morning  when  they  go  to  bed  cold.” 
“Well,  well,”  said  he,  laughing,  “I  suppose  if  I en- 
joy the  fire  too,  it  won’t  interfere  with  the  flies.  I’ll 
bring  my  books  in  here,  and  we’ll  try  to  be  sociable.” 
Then  Benjie  shuffled  in  through  the  entry  as  if  he 
were  being  dragged. 

“ I say,  Mamie,  I don’t  want  to  go  to  be-ed ! ” 

But  when  he  saw  the  fire  dancing  on  the  hearth,  he 
sprang  into  my  arms,  crying,  — 

“Isn’t  it  festive?  Who’s  a-coming?  Mayn’t  I sit 
up  and  see  ’em  ? ” 

“ There  is  no  one  coming,  Benjie ; and  if  you’ll  be  a 
dear,  quiet  little  boy,  you  may  sit  up  till  you  are 
sleepy.” 

“Hooray!  Hoora-ay!  Hooray  for  evermore!” 
shouted  he,  swinging  his  arms  in  ecstasy. 


BRIGHTENING  THE  HOUSE, 


135 


Dear  little  fellow!  There  is  such  a thing  as  chil- 
dren’s rights,  and  I don’t  mean  to  interfere  with  yours 
any  more. 

‘‘Well,  this  is  cheerful,”  said  my  father,  wheeling  in 
his  big  chair,  and  putting  on  the  dressing-gown  I had 
ready  for  him. 

The  fire  brightened  his  whole  face,  and  warmed  his 
imagination,  so  that  he  began  to  make  up  the  most  en- 
tertaining stories ; and  Benjie  sat  on  his  knee,  drawing 
in  his  little  lips  as  if  he  were  imbibing  nectar. 

After  a while  we  fell  to  discussing  all  sorts  of  sub- 
jects ; and  I thought,  as  I’ve  often  thought  before,  that 
my  father,  in  certain  moods,  is  the  most  agreeable  man 
I ever  saw.  I asked  him  if  he  could  hear  my  lessons 
again  next  winter.  He  said,  Certainly,  if  we  would 
submit  to  a little  irregularity. 

“And,  papa,  are  you  willing  Judith  should  recite 
with  me  in  Latin  ? ” 

I, dared  not  add  geometry,  for  Judith  is  very  much 
afraid  of  him,  and  would  never  like  to  have  him  know 
how  dull  she  is  in  figures. 

“ O,  yes ; I shall  be  quite  willing  to  hear  her  recita- 
tions when  she  is  not  up  in  the  blue.” 

“ O,  papa,  she  is  not  half  so  absent-minded  as  ‘you 
think.  People  don’t  understand  Judith.” 

“Probably  not.  Sentimental  young  ladies  are  too 
deep  to  be  understood.” 

When  he  called  Judith  “sentimental,”  with  that 
quiet  smile  of  his,  there  didn’t  seem  to  be  anything  left 
of  her  bigger  than  the  head  of  a pin.  I hastened  to 
change  the  subject  by  showing  him  a fossil  Robert  had 
found  in  the  woods.  But  that  only  reminded  him  to 


136 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


say  he  wished  Judith  had  an  interest  in  the  natural 
sciences ; for  then  she  might  not  sit  curled  up  like  a 
dormouse,  but  run  about  enough  to  get  a little  color, 
and  correct  the  morbid  tone  of  her  mind.  My  father 
is  very  hard  on  Judith.  I believe  he  thinks  she  is 
the  sort  of  girl  to  elope  with  a dancing-master.  Robert 
is  after  his  own  heart,  because  he  is  fond  of  poking  in 
the  dirt.  He  is  the  only  person  in  town  who  has  free 
access  to  my  father’s  office,  and  library,  and  surgical  in- 
struments. He  spends  hours  combining  fluids  of  differ- 
ent colors  in  a retort,  and  weighing  gases,  which,  I 
suppose,  is  a sign  of  a well-balanced  mind.  As  if  we  were 
all  expected  to  be  just  alike  in  this  world!  Judith 
may  not  love  science,  but  she  dotes  on  poetry ; and  let 
her  faults  be  what  they  may,  she  is  my  best  friend, 
and  I won’t  have  my  own  father  ridicule  her  if  I can 
help  it. 

December  4.  Keller  has  come  and  gone.  At  first 
it  seemed  very  odd  to  him  without  mother  and  Pau- 
line; but  I tried  my  very  best  to  be  agreeable,  and 
never  let  the  fire  go  low  in  the  sitting-room,  and  he 
said  it  was  jollier  than  he  expected.  Really  he  came 
very  near  being  confidential  with  me.  He  was  like 
himself,  only  he  didn’t  whistle ; and  mother  says,  “ I 
shall  always  feel  safe  about  my  two  boys  as  ‘long  as  I 
can  hear  them  whistle.”  I hope  there  isn’t  any  trou- 
ble on  his  mind  that  has  stopped  the  music.  I told 
him  how  tearful  Mrs.  Works  had  been  this  fall,  and 
how  she  even  cried  at  the  bare  idea  of  his  running  in 
debt ; and  he  began  to  walk  the  floor,  and  look  so  con- 
fused, that  it  startled  me,  though  I will  not  be  mean 
enough  to  suspect  that  that  boy  has  done  anything 


BRIGHTENING  THE  HOUSE. 


137 


wrong.  Thankful  was  so  oveijoyed  to  see  him,  that 
she  put  on  the  purple  shawl,  and  smiled  all  over  her 
face. 

‘‘Why,  Thankful,”  said  he,  “how  handsome  your 
shoulders  are ! What  has  been  your  object  in  hiding 
them  under  layers  of  capes,  shortest  ones  uppermost, 
like  shingles  on  the  roof  of  a house  ? ” 

She  laughed,  for  she  lets  Keller  say  what  he  pleases. 

“You  look  like  another  woman,”  he  said.  “What 
has  become  of  your  owl-eyed  glasses,  and  your  outlandish 
cap  ? Somebody  will  be  falling  in  love  with  you,  next 
thing.” 

Thankful  groaned. 

I enjoyed  Keller’s  visit  hugely,  only  he  made  fun  of 
Zephyr. 

“ She  was  taken  for  a bad  debt,”  he  said,  “ and  ought 
to  be  a bad  horse,  which,  if  I am  any  judge,  she  cer- 
tainly is.” 

He  means  nothing  against  her  moral  qualities,  for  a 
sweeter  pony  never  breathed.  Physically  speaking, 
she  may  not  be  all  I could  wish ; but  how  is  she  to 
blame  for  that  ? In  addition  to  the  tenderness  of  her 
feet,  I am  afi'aid  she  is  having  trouble  with  one  of  her 
eyes. 


138 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A MYSTERY  IN  THE  ATTIC. 


Mis8  Tottenham, 


January  1. 

ZEPHYR  began  the  year  by  a fall.  Tom  was 
leading  her  into  the  barn,  and  she  fell  flat  on  the 
ice.  “ What  ice  ? ” I hear  you  ask,  Miss  Tot- 
tenham. Well,  I should  call  it  the  glaciers  of  neatness. 
Thankful  had  just  been  washing  the  barn  again,  and,  as 
the  thermometer  is  two  degrees  below  zero,  the  floor 
froze  as  smooth  as  glass.  The  dear  beast  was  dread- 
fully shaken.  Tom  rubbed  her  faithfully,  and  I went 
out  and  fed  her  with  cake.  If  Thankful’s  extraordinary 
neatness  continues.  Zephyr  must  wear  skates. 

I went  into  the  kitchen,  which  was  fragrant  with 
boiling  suds,  and  said  I,  “ Thankful,  do  please  tell  me 
what  ails  you.  You  never  were  in  the  habit  of  wash- 
ing the  barn  floor ; you  know  you  never  were.” 

She  only  answered  by  a burst  of  tears.  I looked 
at  her  critically,  and  was  struck  with  the  yellow  tinge 
of  her  face.  Instead  of  “ strawberries  smothered  in 
cream,”  it  is  more  like  orange-peel  smothered  in  lem- 
onade. 

“ Thankful,”  said  I,  “ perhaps  it  is  your  liver.  My 


A MTSTERT  IN  THE  ATTIC, 


139 


father  will  give  you  some  pills,  if  you  will  only  describe 
the  case  ” 

“ Pills  ? ” echoed  Thankful  with  a grim  smile.  If 
he’ll  mix  me  something  that’ll  settle  my  mind,  I’ll 
thank  him.” 

“ O,  is  that  it  ? ” 

“Yes;  that’s  just  it.  I don’t  suppose  you’d  take  me 
for  a shifty-minded  woman ; now  would  you  ? ” 

“No,  indeed,  Thankful;  I thought  your  mind  was 
always  made  up  tight,  and  fastened  with  an  iron  bolt.” 
“You  dear  little  soul,”  said  she,  offering  me  a chair, 
“I  wish  you’d  sit  down  here,  and  tell  me  your  candid 
opinion  of  James  Works.” 

“ Why,  Thankful,  I am  not  in  the  least  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Works.  I’ve  only  seen  him  in  passing 
through  the  room.” 

“Very  true;  but  I’m  kind  of  curious  to  knowhow 
he  strikes  you.  There  isn’t  another  girl  of  your  age  in 
Quinn ebasset  so  sharp-witted  as  you  are,  and  that’s 
what  I’ve  always  maintained.” 

“Why,  Thankful!”  said  I,  very  much  flattered; 
“I’m  sure  I ought  to  answer  your  question  after  such 
a compliment  as  that!  You  would  like  to  know  what 
sort  of  impression  I have  received  of  Mr.  Works,  just 
from  seeing  him  a few  times  ? ” 

“ Yes,  dear,  I want  your  honest  mind,”  said  Thankful, 
smoothing  down  her  outside  cape. 

“Well,  if  you  really  wish  to  know,  he  is  dreadfully 
disagreeable  to  me.  I’m  tired  to  death  of  seeing  him 
tilted  back  against  the  kitchen  wall  like  a great  bag  of 
meal.  And  that  everlasting  smile  ! It  doesn’t  mean 
a thing;  it’s  only  a pucker  of  the  lips,  like  getting 


140 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


ready  to  whistle.  And  then  his  hands  always  in  his 
pockets ! How  do  you  stand  it,  Thankful,  to  have  him 
round  so  much  ? ” 

Thankful  drew  herself  up  as  straight  as  Bunker 
Hill  Monument.  I never  was  so  surprised ; after  she 
had  asked  my  opinion  too ! 

‘‘I  should  be  pleased  to  know,  Marian  Prescott,” 
said  she,  “what  James  Works  has  ever  done  to  you  or 
any  of  your  folks  that  you  should  run  on  in  that  style  • 
You  don’t  know  anything  about  him.  And  I think  it 
would  be  quite  as  becoming  in  a girl  of  your  age  to 
talk  more  respectful ! ” 

With  that  Thankful  walked  right  out  in  the  dark 
kitchen  and  shut  herself  up.  The  next  moment  she 
began  to  sing.  She  always  sings  when  her  feelings  are 
hurt.  And  O,  dear,  such  dismal  hymns!  I hate  to 
wound  her,  on  that  account.  I’m  sure  I hadn’t  the 
least  idea  she  ever  cared  enough  for  her  husband  to 
resent  what  was  said  of  his  brother.  But  it  seems 
she  did. 

January  3.  Thankful  has  . scarcely  spoken  for  two 
days.  She  is  perfectly  pleasant  and  polite,  but  every . 
word  seems  to  come  from  the  depths  of  a broken 
heart.  If  she  expects  me  to  take  back  what  I said 
about  James  Works,  she  will  be  disappointed.  She 
asked  my  opinion  — didn’t  she?  Well,  I gave  it;  and 
if  it  was  a wrong  one,  so  much  the  better  for  J ames. 
He  may  be  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  I hope  he  is ; but 
I don’t  believe  it.  He  came  again  last  night,  and  I 
went  into  the  kitchen,  not  knowing  he  was  there.  He 
said  it  was  a “trimmer  of  a cold  night;  and  didn’t 
I think  a man  that  h^d  come  all  the  way  from  Poo- 


A MTSTERT  IN  THE  ATTIC. 


141 


noosac  to  see  Mrs.  Works  ought  to  have  a cup  of  her 
celestial  ginger  tea  ? ” 

lie  winked,  and  looked  so  silly,  that  I think  it  mor- 
tified Thankful,  for  she  disappeared  behind  the  pantry 
door. 

January  5.  Such  strange  things  are  happening  at 
our  house!  I think,  as  Zephyr  does,  that  the  world 
has  grown  slippery.  Thankful  told  my  father  last  night 
she  would  like  to  consult  him  in  his  office.  I supposed 
it  must  be  in  relation  to  some  hidden  disease,  and 
pitied  her  very  much.  Her  mother  died  of  dropsy.  I 
wondered  if  it  was  hereditary.  I didn’t  believe  Thank- 
ful could  have  it,  though,  because  she  shed  so  many 
tears ! 

‘‘Papa,”  said  I,  when  he  came  back  to  the  sitting- 
room,  “ is  it  anything  I may  ask  you  about  ? ” 

He  drew  his  chair  before  the  fire,  and  broke  out  into 
little  explosions  of  laughter. 

“Yes,  I’d  as  lief  tell  you  as  not.  Thankful  has  been 
asking  my  candid  opinion  of  James  Works.” 

“Why,  she  asked  mine  too!  Did  you  give  yours, 
papa  ? ” 

“Yes,  Marian,  I was  just  such  a fool.  I was  taken 
off  my  guard,  in  the  first  place,  by  her  talking  as  if  she 
did  not  intend  to  marry  him.” 

“Marry  him,  papa!  I should  think  not!  Did  he 
ever  dare  ask  her  ? ” 

“It  seems  he  has  had  the  courage.  But  she  says  she 
told  him  one  slice  off  a loaf  was  enough,  and  she  didn’t 
approve  of  marrying  twice  into  the  same  family.  I as- 
sured her  she  was  quite  right.  ‘James  Works  is  a 
mercenary,  good-for-nothing  fellow,  and  is  after  your 


142 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


money,’  said  I.  ‘ If  you  accept  him,  you’ll  be  doing  a 
foolish  thing.’  ^ 

“ I spoke  my  honest  convictions,  out  of  regard  to  the 
good  soul,  for  I really  respect  her ; but  next  minute  I 
saw  my  mistake.  I knew  by  tlie  nipping  of  her  lips 
that  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  him.” 

‘‘Why,  father  Prescott!  After  all  she  has  said 
about  ‘never  marrying  again,  no,  never’?” 

“Well,  yes;  after  all  that,  my  dear.  ‘Thank  you, 
doctor,’  said  she.  ‘No  doubt  you’ve  stated  your  candid 
opinion;  but  I see  you’ve  been  misinformed.  James 
Works  is  a very  different  man  from  what  you  take  him 
to  T)e.  He’s  a better  calculator  than  Josiah  was  ; but 
as  for  being  stren-oo-ous  about  a half  cent,  as  some 
folks  tell  about,  it’s  no  such  a thing.” 

“ That  told  the  whole  story  — that  and  the  flash  of 
her  eye.  Good  enough  for  me ! And,  daughter  Mar- 
ian, if  I ever  give  another  candid  opinion,  may  I be 
served  in  the  same  way  again ! ” 

Then  my  father  rubbed  his  hands  and  laughed. 
Well,  if  he  sees  anything  funny  in  it,  it  is  more  than  I 
do.  I always  supposed  Thankful  a truthful  woman, 
but  now  it  seems  to  me  she  has  perjured  herself  Papa 
evidently  excuses  her,  though,  and  thinks  her  mind  is 
weak  — weak  as  water ! If  I had  said  I should  not 
marry,  you  might  be  sure  my  mind  was  made  up,  and 
couldn’t  be  turned.  Not  that  I ever  did  say  such  a 
thing.  It  is  best  to  be  careful  of  one’s  words. 

January  7.  What  are  we  going  to  do  without 
Thankful  ? Affairs  are  approaching  a crisis.  She  told 
me  to-day  she  “ didn’t  care  any  great  about  James,  but 
she  should  have  to  marry  him  to  get  rid  of  him.” 


A MTSTERT  IN  THE  ATTIC, 


143 


Such  an  idea!  But  she  may  not  mean  it.  I find  she 
doesn’t  always  mean  what  she  says.  But  one  thing  is 
sure : she  will  leave  us  as  soon  as  we  can  find  another 
girl.  How  would  poor  mother  feel  ? And  she  so  easy 
about  us,  trusting  in  the  widow  Works,  and  believing 
she  truly  hates  “the  whole  race  of  mankind.”  O, 
Thankful,  Thankful!  why  don’t  you  stick  to  your 
appendix  ? 

January  15,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  a great  excite- 
ment. Night  before  last,  just  as  I was  going  to  sleep, 
I heard  a sudden  noise  outside  my  window,  which  is 
over  the  dining-room.  It  was  the  crunching  of  snow 
under  a man’s  boots.  Who  could  be  walking  there  at 
that  time  of  night?  It  was  ten  o’clock,  cloudy  and 
starless,  the  snow  falling  fast.  Why  didn’t  he  go  along 
the  path  to  the  side  door,  instead  of  wading  through 
the  deep  snow  up  to  the  window?  He  must  be  a 
thiefi  trying  to  get  into  the  dining-room.  Perhaps  he 
did  not  know  the  house,  and  thought  we  kept  silver. 
Or  perhaps  he  did  know  the  house,  and  was  aware  that 
my  father  and  Tom  were  both  gone,  and  nobody  left 
but  two  helpless  women  and  a little  child.  I heard 
him  come  nearer  and  nearer,  and  actually  try,  very 
gently,  to  open  one  of  the  dining-room  windows. 

I sprang  out  of  bed,  and  crept  into  Thankful’s  room 
over  the  kitchen.  It  was  dark  there,  but  I could  see  a 
ray  of  light  from  Thankful’s  candle,  as  she  was  disap- 
pearing through  the  door  that  leads  from  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  into  the  kitchen. 

Presently  I heard  a low  scream,  and  after  that  the 
sound  of  whispering.  I know  I did.  I hurried  on  my 
clothes,  determined  to  find  out  what  it  meant.  By 


144 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


that  time  Thankful  had  stolen  up  stairs  again.  I 
rushed  into  her  room  in  the  greatest  excitement ; but 
there  she  sat  on  the  bed,  as  calm  as  a clock,  with  her 
green  wrapper  on,  and  yawning,  as  if  she  had  just 
waked  up. 

“ What  is  it  ? Who  is  it  ? ” I whispered. 

What’s  what?”  said  she,  rubbing  her  eyes. 

Such  duplicity ! I couldn’t  and  wouldn’t  endure  it. 
Did  the  woman  think  I was  deaf,  blind,  and  half- 
witted ? 

‘‘Thankful  Works,”  said  I,  beside  myself  with  rage, 
“you  needn’t  try  to  cheat  me!  James  Works  was 
breaking  into  this  house,  and  you  went  down  and  -sent 
him  away.  I guess  you’ll  think  more  of  my  ‘ candid 
opinion  ’ next  time  about  scamps ! Don’t  talk ! Don’t 
say  a word ! I’ve  heard,  and  I know ! and  my  father 
shall  be  informed  this  very  night ! ” 

That  finished  the  business.  Thankful  stared  at  me 
with  strong  displeasure,  and  said  she,  — 

“I  wish  you  better  manners.  I was  revolving  it 
round  in  my  mind  whether  I’d  better  tell  you  what 
had  happened ; but  now  I certain  shan’t.” 

And  that  was  all  I could  get  out  of  her,  except  that 
it  wasn’t  any  of  the  Workses.  Why  did  I speak  so 
hastily  ? I told  my  father  about  it,  but  he  said  “ Pooh, 
pooh!  Only  somebody  come  to  return  a borrowed 
coffee-pot  or  tea-spoon.” 

That’s  a likely  story ! 

January  17.  I had  settled  down  quietly,  and  nearly 
forgotten  my  excitement,  till  to-night  I happened  to 
come  upon  Thankful,  as  she  was  stealing  down  the 
attic  stairs  with  a 23late  and  cup  in  her  hand.  She  hid 


A MTSTERT  IN  THE  ATTIC, 


145 


them  under  her  apron  very  suddenly,  though  she  must 
have  known  I had  seen  them.  I said  not  a word,  but 
fixed  my  eyes  steadily  upon  her. 

There  is  some  one  concealed  in  this  house ; I feel  it 
all  over  me.  That  accounts  for  the  voices  I thought  I 
heard  yesterday  in  the  attic.  There  can  be  nothing 
wrong  going  on.  Thankful  is  as  true  as  steel,  — about 
everything  but  marriage.  I am  not  alarmed,  but  de- 
voured with  curiosity.  The  attic  door  is  locked,  for  I 
tried  it.  I thought  I heard  the  shuffling  of  feet. 

Put  your  ear  down  close.  Miss  Tottenham.  I sus- 
pect it’s  Keller  up  there!  Can  anything  have  hap- 
pened that  makes  him  want  to  hide  ? I remember  he 
didn’t  whistle  last  November.  If  it  is  Keller,  why 
didn’t  he  confide  in  his  own  sister  Marian?  But 
though  he  didn’t.  I’ll  not  betray  him.  I’ll  give  no 
hint  of  this  to  my  father. 

It  may  not  be  Keller ; but  whoever  it  is  that  is  hid- 
den away  among  those  old  cobwebs.  I’ll  soon  find  out. 
Mrs.  Works  needn’t  think  anything  clandestine  can  be 
carried  on  in  this  house  without  my  sifting  it  to  the 
bottom. 


10 


146 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


BEARDING  THE  LION. 

LL  alone  in  the  attic  of  his  father’s  house, 
among  lazy  wasps  and  spinning  spiders,  sat 
Keller  Prescott  eating  an  apple.  Not  daring 
to  walk  about  lest  he  should  make  too  much  noise,  he 
sat  so  very  still  that  an  enterprising  spider  had  begun 
to  attach  him  to  the  rafter,  by  what  she  considered  a 
rope. 

It  was  a new  thing  for  Keller  to  keep  so  quiet — a 
tedious  thing.  If  he  looked  out  of  the  dingy  window, 
he  saw  only  a white  landscape ; if  he  shut  his  eyes,  his 
mind  made  pictures  he  did  not  care  to  see.  Here  is 
one  picture  which  tired  him  strangely.  It  was  drawn 
from  memory. 

Six  youths,  on  a dark  night,  groping  up  hill,  and  into 
the  barn  of  a venerable  clergyman  to  steal  his  family 
carryall.  What  did  they  want  of  it  ? O,  it  would  be 
fun  to  wheel  it  down  hill,  and  hide  it  in  the  hearse- 
house.  Can’t  live  without  fun,  you  know.  Very  dark 
night.  No  moon,  no  stars,  and,  luckily,  no  dog.  Three 
of  the  youths  go  behind  the  carryall,  and  tliree  take  hold 
of  the  thills.  “By  the  way,  boys,  guess  the  parson 
keeps  his  sermons  in  liere!  About  heavy  enough,  hey?” 
Going  down  hill,  it  rolls  faster.  Boys  begin  to  chuckle. 


BEARDING  THE  LION. 


147 


when  suddenly  a whip  cracks,  and  a voice  from  the  car- 
ryall calls  out,  “ Thank  you,  young  men.  I’m  having  a 
very  nice  ride;  but  you  may  just  turn  around  now,  and 
haul  me  up  hill ! ” Consternation  dire ! It  is  the 
voice  of  Professor  H. ! How  and  when  he  hid  in  the 
carryall  nobody  knows ; but  there  he  is,  and  the  boys, 
outwitted,  turn  about  and  haul  him  up  in  silence. 
“Crack  goes  the  whip,  round  go  the  wheels;”  was 
ever  load  like  this  ? 

Othei:  pictures  come  up.  One  of  them  is  painted  on 
a chapel  window  with  lampblack  and  molasses,  and 
over  it  the  ominous  words,  “ Suspension  for  this  of- 
fence.” 

By  the  way,  what  an  endless  while  from  breakfast  till 
dinner!  Was  Thankful  ever  coming  with  that  fancy 
roast  and  mince  pie  ? Keller  heard  a step  on  the  stairs, 
and  started  up  eagerly.  It  was  not  Thankful.  She 
made  the  boards  creak  under  her  slippered  feet.  This 
was  Marian ; he  knew  her  light,  quick  tread,  and  the 
click  of  her  little  heels. 

“ What  does  she  want  here  ? ” thought  he,  crouching 
involuntarily. 

Marian  tried  the  door;  it  was  locked  fast.  She 
shook  it,  poked  a shingle  under  it,  muttered  something, 
and  clattered  down  again. 

“ She  has  gone  to  tell  father  the  door  is  fastened,” 
thought  Keller.  “They’ll  be  up  here  with  hammer 
and  tongs ! If  Miriam  is  on  my  track,  it  is  all  day 
with  me ! ” 

For  the  next  half  hour  the  youth  listened  intently; 
but  no  sound  was  heard  save  the  nibbling  of  rats  in 
the  walls.  Then  Thankful  appeared  with  the  dinner. 


148 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘What’s  up?”  exclaimed  Keller,  plucking  at  her 
sleeve.  “ Marian’s  been  here  and  tried  the  door.  Did 
you  hear  ? Did  she  tell  ? ” 

“No,  not  a word.  You  needn’t  be  a grain  concerned; 
her  head  is  so  full  of  everything  she’ll  never  think  of  it 
again.” 

And  setting  the  waiter  on  the  top  of  a chest,  and 
heaving  a sigh,  which  was  either  to  the  memory  of 
Josiah,  or  to  Dr.  Prescott’s  “candid  opinion”  of  James, 
Thankful  stole  gingerly  down  stairs. 

Keller  moved  an  old  rocking-chair  towards  the  chest, 
and  proceeded  to  enjoy  his  dinner.  There  was  noth- 
ing so  good  for  his  spirits  as  eating.  He  removed  the 
cover  from  the  fancy  roast,  and  the  savory  odor  caused 
him  to  rub  his  hands  with  satisfaction. 

“ Thankful’s  a brick.” 

He  drew  his  napkin  out  of  its  ring,  and  spread  it 
across  his  knees.  In  so  doing  a piece  of  paper  flew 
out,  and  fluttered  down  to  the  floor.  Keller  took  it  up 
mechanically;  it  had  been  folded  into  the  napkin  by 
mistake,  no  doubt ; but  there  was  so  little  to  amuse  him 
just  now,  that  he  could  not  let  even  a slip  of  paper  pass 
without  looking  at  it.  It  proved  to  be  a three-cor- 
nered note  addressed  to  himself.  “ She’s  caught  me ; 
it’s  all  over  with  me,”  groaned  Keller. 

“You  dear  old  boy;  now  don’t  be  frightened,  and 
say,  ‘ She’s  caught  me ; it’s  all  over  with  me ; ’ for  I 
shanH  tell  my  father,  Keller,  I give  you  my  word.  I 
know  you  think  I’m  sharp-cornered,  and  you  don’t 
love  me  as  you  do  Pauline ; but  I’ve  been  rolling  my- 
self in  sugar  all  winter,  and  you’ve  no  idea  how  sweet 
I have  grown. 


BEARDING  THE  LION, 


149 


“ I’m  going  up  at  two  o’clock.  Let  me  into  the  attic, 
Keller,  there’s  a dear  brother,  and  then  you  can  tell  me 
just  what  you’ve  done  that  makes  you  want  to  hide 
your  head.  I’m  sorry  for  you,  and  I love  you,  and  I 
promise  not  to  tell.  Marian.” 

“ Whew ! This  beats  all ! ” said  Keller,  giving  the 
rocking-chair  a jerk  which  nearly  upset  the  chest. 
“ Bless  her  heart,  she  shall  come  in.  Besides,  I couldn’t 
keep  her  out  with  a double-barrelled  gun.” 

At  two  o’clock  there  was  a second  clattering  of  little 
boot-heels,  and  Keller  0]3ened  the  door  before  Marian 
had  time  to  knock.  A beam  of  sunshine  seemed  to 
dance  into  the  dusty  garret  with  her  golden  head  and 
sparkling  eyes. 

“ O,  Keller,  I don’t  know  what  you’ve  done ; but  if 
you’ve  committed  murder  I shall  always  love  you  just 
the  same,”  cried  she,  throwing  herself,  laughing  and 
crying,  into  his  arms. 

Keller  returned  the  embrace  with  unusual  fervor. 

‘‘  How  did  you  know  I was  uj)  here,  you  little 
witch  ? ” 

“ La,  KeHer,  a body  doesn’t  need  to  be  a witch  to 
hear  people  break  into  a house.  I knew  when  Thank- 
ful let  you  in,  but  wasn’t  sure  ’twas  you  till  you  crept 
down  stairs  last  night  to  see  Benjie.” 

‘‘  How  did  you  know  that,  for  gracious  sake  ? ” 

‘‘  Why,  you  left  this  neck-tie,  dear,  the  one  I made 
last  fall  — dropped  it  on  the  bed.  Haven’t  you 
missed  it  ? ” 

There,  Marian.  I might  have  known  you’d  ferret 
me  out,”  said  Keller,  in  a tone  half  admiring,  half  fretful. 
“ I ought  to  have  gone  to  you  in  the  first  place,  only  I 


150 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


thought  you  wouldn’t  understand  how  a fellow  got  in 
in  such  a fix.” 

“Does  Robert  know  you’re  here?” 

“ No  ; what  business  is  it  of  his  ? ” 

“ Keller,  have  you  a pocket  comb  ? ” (The  boy  has 
no  idea  how  wild  he  looks !)  “ Put  your  head  in  my 

lap.  There,  you  like  my  scraj)ing  as  well  as  ever  — 
don’t  you  ? ” 

“Yes,”  said  Keller,  yielding  to  the  soothing  sensation 
gratefully.  “ It  does  seem  good  to  see  somebody  be- 
sides spiders.  Tell  you  what,  Marian — By  the 
way  — ” 

A long  pause. 

“ O,  dear,”  thought  Marian,  “ what  is  it  ? He  looks 
so  haggard  and  queer!  I don’t  want  to  know  one 
word ! But  here  I am,  the  daughter  of  the  house.  I 
must!  I must!  Who  is  there  but  me  to  attend  to 
him  ? He  shan’t  go  to  destruction  if  I can  pull  him 
back.” 

“You  see,  the  fact  is  — ” 

“ That’s  right,  Keller ; tell  me  all  about  it,  just  as  you 
would  to  mother  or  Pauline.” 

“Why,  Marian,  what’s  come  over  you?  I believe 
you  been  rolled  in  sugar!  I was  just  going  to 
remark  that  I’m  two  hundred  — dollars  — in  debt ! 
How  does  that  sound  for  a young  man  of  my  age  ? ” 

Marian  started,  and  unconsciously  drove  the  comb 
deep  into  Keller’s  scalp. 

“You  needn’t  ask  any  questions.  Goodness  knows 
what’s  become  of  the  money;  I don’t.  That  house- 
keeping with  Brownie  was  plaguy  expensive,  and  I lent 
several  X’s;  and  it’s  the  fashion  to  treat;  and  I — well, 


BEARDING  THE  LION, 


151 


it  got  so  steep  I had  to  borrow  of  Thankful;  and  now 
here’s  James  Works  in  my  hair!” 

‘‘James  Works?” 

“Yes.  Don’t  dig  so!  Easy!  He  threatens  to  tell 
father,  and  sue  him,  too,  if  I don’t  fork  over.” 

“ Tell  him  yourself,  Keller ; that’s  the  best  way.  In- 
deed and  indeed  he  ought  to  know.” 

“ I didn’t  ask  your  advice  — did  I ? ” said  the  youth, 
sulkily.  “ See  here ; you  promised,  honor  bright,  you 
wouldn’t  expose  me.” 

“Am  I,  or  am  I not,  to  be  trusted,  Keller  Pres- 
cott?” 

“ Don’t  be  touchy,  sister.  I’m  a used-up  man,  and 
that’s  what’s  the  matter.  Father’d  take  my  head  off 
if  he  knew,  and  it’s  nothing  out  of  the  way  either,  if 
you  look  at  it  in  the  right  light.” 

“ Keller,  dear,  go  on  and  tell  the  whole.  I promise 
not  to  scold.  Blush  against  my  apron.  I can’t  see 
your  face,  you  know.” 

Whereupon,  blushing  to  order  against  the  dainty 
white  apron,  Keller  took  courage  to  reveal  all  his 
“ scrapes,”  beginning  with  the  carryall,  and  winding  up 
with  the  lampblack  and  molasses. 

“ Kow,  Marian,  I was  no  worse  than  the  other  fel- 
lows. We  all  got  tired  of  having  the  old  prof  dilate 
on  the  beauty  of  stained  glass,  and  quote  Milton  so 
big.  We  agreed  we’d  give  him  some  ‘dim  religious 
light,’  if  he  wanted  it;  but  it  didn’t  seem  to  suit;  wasn’t 
dim  enough  perhaps ! And  some  of  the  sticky  stuff 
got  on  my  clothes,  of  course ; I’m  always  the  scape- 
goat of  the  crowd.  That  brought  me  out,  you  see,  and 
suspension  was  coming  after  me ; so  I ran.” 


152 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


“ You  didn’t  run  away  ? ” 

“Well,  no;  came  by  boat.” 

“But  why  didn’t  the  faculty  write  to  your  father 
about  it  ? ” 

“ Shouldn’t  wonder  if  they  did.  Do  you  see  this 
letter?  Thankful  whipped  it  out  of  the  post-office. 
She’s  a trump.  All  I have  against  her  is  her  hating 
mankind  so  hard  that  she’s  going  to  marry  James 
Works.” 

“But,  Keller,  I don’t  see  yet;  I don’t  understand. 
You  can’t  expect  to  live  always  up  here  in  this  attic?” 

“Ko,  ma^am.  I intend  to  go  to  sea.” 

“ To  sea  ? ” 

“Yes,  with  Captain  Rush.  You  know  he  told  me 
last  fall  he’d  take  me  round  the  world  for  nothing.” 

“O,  Keller!  Keller!” 

“He  starts  tenth  of  next  month.  I wrote  him 
day  before  yesterday,  and  he  says,  ‘All  right.  Come 
ahead.’” 

“Keller,  do  please  stop  joking.” 

“Joking,  Marian?  Why,  it’s  dead  earnest.  What’s 
the  use  for  a fellow  to  study  his  eyes  out,  and  then  be 
suspended  by  the  hair  of  the  head  ? I’d  have  gone  to 
sea  long  ago,  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  making  a fuss  in  the 
family.” 

“Have  you  thought  of  mother,  Keller,  poor  dear 
mother  ? ” 

Keller  writhed  uneasily. 

“ That’s  all  that  bothers  me,”  said  he  in  a helpless 
tone.  “But  she  won’t  hear  of  it  for  a long  time,  and 
then  I shall  write  the  whole  story.  I think  mother 
will  be  reasonable.  It’s  a great  chance  for  me,  Marian. 


BEARDING  THE  LION, 


153 


If  I have  a share  in  buying  cotton,  as  the  captain  prom- 
ises, why,  I can  come  back  and  pay  off  my  debts,  and 
be  in  a fair  way  to  set  up  for  myself  in  business,  and 
make  you  all  rich.” 

In  spite  of  her  vivid  imagination,  Marian  had  a 
shrewd,  practical  little  head  of  her  own,  and  no  great 
patience  with  Keller’s  vagaries.  A sarcastic  speech 
rose  to  her  lips,  but  she  sent  it  back  instantly. 

“I  hope  I shall  have  sense  enough  to  hold  my 
tongue,”  thought  she. 

“ But,  Keller,  if  you  meant  to  sail  with  Captain  Rush, 
why  didn’t  you  go  straight  to  Yarmouth?  What 
made  you  come  home  at  all?” 

“I  had  a kind  of  hankering  to  see  the  old  place 
again!  and  besides,  I wanted  to  get  some  of  my 
traps.” 

‘‘Hark,  Keller;  there’s  Thankful  calling.  Robert 
and  Judith  have  come  to  ride  with  me.  I’ll  be  up 
again  this  evening,  and  we’ll  talk  more.  Dear  me ! I 
don’t  know  at  all  what  I’m  about.  Seems  as  if  I must 
speak  right  out  to  Rob  and  Jude,  and  tell  the  whole 
story : but  then  I have  faith  to  believe  I shan’t.” 

Keller  had  faith  to  believe  it  too.  Hadn’t  he  Mar- 
ian’s word? 

“Don’t  forget  to  come  up  to-night,”  said  he,  wist- 
fully. “Now  you’ve  once  been  up,  I know  I can’t 
stand  it  alone.” 

“Have  you  had  bad  news  from  your  mother?” 
asked  Judith,  as  the  three  rode  abreast  through  the 
wide  street.  Robert  said  nothing,  but  eyed  Marian’s 
troubled  face  inquiringly. 

“You’re  the  lynxest-eyed  people,”  said  she,  shaking 


154 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


her  riding- whip.  “No ; mamma  gains  constantly.  Dr. 
W are  is  failing ; but  I’ll  not  be  such  a hypocrite  as  to 
pretend  that’s  what  ails  me.  I hoped  you  wouldn’t 
notice  anything.  Please  don’t  ask  me.” 

Judith  reached  out  her  left  hand  towards  her  friend 
with  an  impulse  of  sympathy;  but  Robert  shook  his 
head  at  her,  and  she  drew  it  away  again. 

With  that  fine  tact  which  was  part  of  his  common 
sense,  he  perceived  that  Marian  wished  to  be  let  alone, 
that  her  troubles  would  not  bear  discussion.  He  be- 
gan to  talk  to  Judith  about  the  Reading  Circle,  of 
which  both  the  girls  were  now  honorable  members; 
then  about  Marian’s  three-legged  horse,  for  Zephyr’s 
lameness  was  becoming  so  noticeable  that  the  fact 
could  no  longer  be  disguised. 

Marian  caught  a word  here  and  there,  but  it  did  not 
break  up  the  strong  under-current  of  her  thoughts. 

“ Bear  ye  one  another’s  burdens.  I’ll  do  it  if  it  kills 
me.  Those  government  bonds  are  my  own.  If  I 
choose  to  take  them  and  pay  Thankful,  my  father  has 
no  right  to  complain.  Nor  aunt  Hinsdale  either. 
Mother  would  be  glad  — dear  mother!  It’s  for  her 
sake.  It’s  for  her  sake  first,  and  then  for  all  our  sakes. 
He’s  so  afraid  of  my  father!  Judgment  is  what  he 
lacks ; but  then  we  must  take  him  as  he  is.  I did  not 
mean  to  touch  those  bonds.  It  is  so  pleasant  to  think 
they  are  there  in  the  secret  drawer  of  my  writing-desk. 
Aunt  Hinsdale  called  them  my  ‘marriage  portion.’ 
That’s  nonsense;  still  it’s  pleasant  to  think  they  are 
there.  I’ve  built  so  many  air-castles  out  of  them  — 
paper  castles.  I thought  if  anything  happened  to  my 
father,  and  he  seemed  low  about  his  business,  I should 


BEARDING  THE  LION. 


155 


just  slip  my  arms  round  his  neck  and  say,  ‘ O,  papa, 
dear,  what’s  mine  is  yours.  Here  are  those  old  bonds ; 
they’re  aching  for  you  to  take  them.’  And  then  he 
would  object,  and  seem  very  much  touched.  The 
blessed  man ! As  if  his  own  daughter  could  do  too 
much  for  him.  And  I should  insist,  and  it  would  end 
in  my  sitting  on  his  knee  and  his  saying,  ‘My  little 
daughter  has  put  a new  heart  into  me.  What  should 
I have  done  without  my  little  daughter?’ 

“But  now  — O,  well,  it  is  very  different.  I think 
myself  it  would  have  been  better  for  Keller  if  he  had 
come  home  and  worked  on  that  ‘ heater-piece,’  as  aunt 
Filura  proposed.  What  does  make  boys  behave  so  I 
can’t  understand.  And  very  likely,  if  I give  him  the 
money,  he’ll  do  the  same  thing  right  over  again,  or  per- 
haps go  to  sea  in  spite  of  it;  slip  right  through  my 
fingers.  He’s  too  proud  to  be  suspended.  And  as  for 
James  Works,  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  press  him  so. 
I’d  wait  till  I was  married  to  a woman  before  I went 
to  collecting  her  debts ! 

“O,  dear!  I wish  I dared  ask  somebody  what  to 
do. — Robert,”  said  she,  suddenly  looking  up  to  the 
sky,  where  the  pale  moon  stood  blinking  in  the  face  of 
the  sun,  “do  you  believe  James  Works  ever  felt  the 
least  interest  in  that  moon  after  he  was  big  enough  to 
know  it  wasn’t  a silver  dollar  ? ” 

Robert  turned  around  with  a smile.  It  was  nothing 
new  for  Marian  to  break  in  at  right  angles  with  some 
whimsical  remark. 

“ Does  Thankful  really  mean  to  marry  that  man  ? ” 
said  he.  “ Then  all  I have  to  say  is,  Cuj^id’s  darts  have 
hit  her  in  two  places  — the  head  as  well  as  the  heart.” 


156 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


Marian  laughed. 

‘‘Yes,  I thought  something  ailed  her  brain  when  she 
took  to  washing  the  barn.  The  dear  old  soul  would 
have  been  married  last  week,  only  she  doesn’t  like  to 
leave  us  till  Brooksey  Waters  can  come  and  take  her 
place.” 

“Brooksey  Waters  won’t  come,”  said  Judith;  “or, 
if  she  does,  ’twill  only  be  for  a few  weeks,  ‘just  to  ac- 
commodate.’ I do  pity  you,  Marian. — Why,  as  true  as 
you  live,  I’ve  left  my  scarf;  my  throat  will  be  sore. 
Robert,  you’ll  have  to  ride  home  and  get  it.” 

“ That’s  always  the  way,”  thought  Marian,  as  Robert 
the  obedient  turned  his  horse,  and  the  girls  followed. 
“ She  doesn’t  even  have  to  say  ‘ please.’  I might  have 
yards  of  sore  throat,  but  I couldn’t  start  Keller  without 
what  Miss  O’Neil  calls  ‘moral  persuasion.’  He’s  not 
the  brother  Robert  is ; yet  how  much  he  needs  some- 
body to  take  care  of  him!  Now  is  the  time  when  I 
must  decide  for  myself  what  to  do.  One  way  is  to  let 
Keller  alone,  and  the  other  is  to  interfere,  and  perhaps 
not  keep  him  from  going  to  sea,  either.  Mother  would 
say,  ‘Just  think  which  way  you  suppose  you  will 
please  God,  and  do  that.’  Yes,  and  what  could  please 
him  better  than  the  Golden  Rule?  Is  it  any  of  my 
business  whether  a thing  does  good  or  not,  if  it’s 
only  my  duty  to  do  it  ? I haven’t  the  future  to  take 
care  of.  The  Golden  Rule  it  is,  and  no  more  words 
about  it.” 

Aunt  Esther  ran  out  with  a pair  of  sheep-shears  in 
one  hand,  and  a basket  of  rags  in  the  other. 

“Well,  I’m  glad  you  had  sense  enough  to  come  back 
for  your  comforter,  Judy.  For  my  part,  I don’t  see  as 


BEARDING  THE  LION. 


157 


these  rides  do  you  a mite  o’  good,  but  the-  doctors  have 
a right  to  their  opinion,  I suppose.  I should  set  you 
to  washing  dishes ; but  then  that’s  work,  and  of  course 
you’re  dead  set  against  work.” 

Sensitive  Judith  dropped  her  eyes  in  a shame-faced 
way;  but  Marian  flashed  back  a look  of  defiance,  and 
sat  up  wonderfully  prim.  It  was  in  her  to  give  aunt 
Esther  a piece  of  her  mind ; but  she  forbore,  and 
merely  said  to  Robert,  when  he  returned  with  the 
scarf,  — 

“Let’s  go  by  Miss  O’Neil’s.  I should  like  to  have 
her  come  out  and  scold!” 

If  this  was  a home-thrust,  aunt  Esther  was  not 
aware  of  it;  for  she  called. after  them, — 

“Judy,  sit  up  straight  now.  Marian,  twitch  her 
shoulders  back.  There’s  no  sense  in  her  doubling 
into  a ball.” 

Marian  saw  there  were  tears  on  Judith’s  cheeks,  and 
her  whole  soul  was  stirred  against  the  woman  who 
could  make  that  dear  girl  cry.  For  the  rest  of  the 
ride,  having  settled  her  own  knotty  questions  about 
Keller,  she  was  prepared  to  entertain  her  friends,  and 
enjoy  herself.  The  art  of  having  a good  time,  and 
“waking  up  Judith,”  she  had  reduced  to  a science. 
What  if  she  did  laugh  too  loud  sometimes,  and  go  olf 
in  little  explosions  of  ecstasy  over  nothing  particular  ? 
There  can’t  be  too  much  innocent  fun  in  the  world. 
Don’t  shake  your  heads,  Mr.  Icicle  and  Madam 
Grundy.  If  you  freeze  up  that  bubbling  spring  of 
gayety  in  a young  girl’s  heart,  you  are  as  cruel  as 
the  untimely  frost  that  nips  the  springing  com. 


158 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


A SPRING  FRESHET. 


Miss  Tottenham. 

February  22. 

HAVE  been  rather  embarrassed  lately,  Miss 


you.  I did  mention  in  January  that  I heard 


somebody  breaking  into  the  house,  and  thought  it  was 
Keller;  but  things  have  transpired,  since  that,  which 
make  it  necessary  for  me  to  hold  my  tongue.  Whether 
it  was  Keller  or  not,  I am  pledged  to  secrecy. 

I suppose,  though,  there  is  no  harm  in  my  saying  he 
spent  a month  at  home.  It  was  understood  that  he 
was  not  very  well.  My  father,  who  was  remarkably 
pitiful  and  kind,  went  to  Exeter,  and  had  some  conver- 
sation with  the  faculty ; and  it  seemed  to  have  a good 
effect  on  Keller’s  health,  for  he  went  back  again  after- 
wards, and  has  studied  like,  a hero.  Pitkin  Jones  said 
he  heard  that  Keller  talked  of  running  away  to  sea ; 
but  Pitkin  is  always  full  of  gossip. 

One  thing  I must  record  : Keller  has  taken  to  loving 
me  at  a furious  rate.  He  says  I’m  an  angel ! O,  ho ! 
Then  my  wings  must  have  grown  out  in  one  day ! He 
never  saw  a feather  on  me  before ! 

Dear  old  Thankful  has  gone  to  fill  a vacancy ; she 


Tottenham,  not  quite  knowing  what  to  say  to 


A SPRING  FRESHET. 


159 


has  married  that  old  widower,  James  Works.  Fare- 
well to  Thankful  the  fair,  and  Jamie  the  brave.  I am 
afraid  Thankful  didn’t  feel  quite  easy  in  her  mind,  or 
she  wouldn’t  have  chanted  that  doleful  hymn  about 
“The  F’erce  North  Wind”  so  much.  It  seems  as  if 
the  kitchen  is  full  of  it.  Aunt  Esther  says  she  “feels 
ugly  for  Mrs.  Works;”  that  means  she  pities  her.  So 
do  I ; but  I pity  myself  more.  Brooksey  W aters  came 
a few  days  “ to  accommodate ; ” but  her  two  half-sisters 
were  taken  down  with  measles,  and  she  left,  no  more 
to  return. 

Then  I had  that  mulatto  woman  with  straight  false 
hair,  Eunice  Parsons.  She  makes  me  think  of  a mo- 
lasses custard  with  nutmeg  on  it.  Freckled,  Miss  Tot- 
tenham ; a freckled  mulatto.  She  staid  long  enough 
to  break  our  soup-tureen,  and  get  a silver  spoon  chewed 
up  in  the  pigs’  pail ; then  the  rheumatism  earned  her 
oiF  to  Poonoosac. 

We  wanted  Betsey  Davis,  but  she  said  she  “under- 
stood Dr.  Prescott  didn’t  have  widow  Works  eat  with 
the  family.”  I told  her  Mrs.  Works  wasn’t  willing  to 
eat  with  the  family,  and  that  was  all  the  reason  she 
didn’t  do  it.  But  Betsey  tossed  her  head,  and  said  I’d 
“better  ask  Susan  Kittiidge,”  which  I think  was  really 
malicious  of  Betsey,  for  Susan  stood  ready  to  come ; 
and  of  all  the  dirty  creatures ! Why,  she  turned  the 
kitchen  sink  into  a perfect  sink  of  iniquity,  and  you 
couldn’t  tell  the  dish-cloth  from  the  mop-rag.  If  mother 
or  Pauline  had  had  the  faintest  idea  what  we’ve  suf- 
fered, they’d  have  sent  home  some  coolies.  But  my 
father  has  charged  me  never  to  write  of  our  domestic 
trials.  Little  affairs  he  calls  them.  Much  he  knows 


160 


THE  DOCTOR DAUGHTER. 


about  it ! It  is  such  a privilege  to  have  been  bom  a 
man!  How  much  wear  and  tear  it  saves!  None  of 
the  responsibilities  of  life.  Nothing  to  worry  you. 
And  here  am  I,  with  blisters  on  both  hands,  and  my 
left  thumb  half  cut  off  by  a bread-knife. 

Tom  went  for  aunt  Filura,  and  she’ll  stay  till  my 
wounds  are  healed.  What  will  turn  up  next,  dear 
knows.  As  for  cooking,  I don’t  understand  anything 
thoroughly  but  hasty  pudding;  and  that  I’m  apt  to 
make  lumpy. 

March,  having  come  in  like  a lion,  was  going  out 
like  a tiger.  On  the  two  last  days  of  the  month  a 
heavy  rain  fell,  and  was  beaten  from  east  to  w'est  by  a 
roaring  wind.  Dr.  Prescott  had  just  finished  his  morn- 
ing calls,  and  was  urging  his  horse  homeward,  as  fast 
as  he  dared,  over  the  black  and  white  road,  — black 
with  icy  mud,  and  white  with  whited  sepulchres  of 
snow,  which  broke  through  and  let  him  in.  Impossible 
to  hold  an  umbrella  against  this  tempest,  which,  even 
on  its  second  day,  showed  no  signs  of  abatement.  The 
good  doctor  bowed  his  head  to  the  gale,  inwardly 
thankful  that  it  was  not  a sickly  season,  and  he  might 
hope  to  toast  his  feet  in  lazy  enjoyment  at  home. 

But  Marian  was  at  the  bay-window,  watching  for 
him. 

“ I’m  so  glad  you’ve  come,  papa ! ” she  cried,  holding 
the  side-door  open  far  enough  to  look  out,  and  shout- 
ing the  words  explosively,  to  be  heard  above  the 
storm.  “Mr.  Dicky,  Tom’s  father,  has  had  a fall. 
Sent  an  hour  ago.  But  do  come  in  and  have  your 
dinner  first.” 


A SPRING  FRESHET, 


161 


Dr.  Prescott  staid  a moment  to  drive  Don  Pedro 
under  shelter,  then  hurried  into  the  dining-room. 

“Tom  is  just  wild  about  his  father,”  said  Marian, 
bringing  in  the  steak  and  potatoes  from  the  warming- 
oven.  “He  begged  so  hard  for  aunt  Filura  to  go,  that 
she  got  right  into  Mr.  Applebee’s  wagon  and  went. 
Mr.  Applebee  was  the  man  that  came.  He  said  Mr. 
Dickey  fell  from  the  upper  scaffold,  and  has  been  insen- 
sible ever  since.  And  there  is  poor  Mrs.  Dickey  wring- 
ing her  hands,  and  flying  round  and  round.  Tom 
couldn’t  see  any  other  way  but  he  must  take  aunt 
Filura  home  with  him.” 

“Yes,”  said  the  doctor,  filling  his  plate,  “the  people 
in  that  neighborhood  consult  aunt  Filura  more  than 
they  do  their  Bibles.  She  is  a person  that  looks  on  life 
from  upper  windows,  and  such  persons  always  have 
great  influence.” 

. “Upper  windows,  papa?  O,  the  windows  next 
heaven.  Well,  she  does  take  you  right  up  on  wings^ 
somehow.  ^ You  feel  as  if  your  troubles  weren’t  of  so 
much  consequence  as  you  supposed.  I can’t  express 
it ; but  I know  how  she  comforted  us  when  we  thought 
Keller  was  married.  She  sees  God  right  behind  every- 
thing; she  doesn’t  believe  there  are  such  things  as  ac- 
cidents, you  know.” 

“Neither  do  I,  Marian. 

‘ It  chanced ; Eternal  God  that  chance  did  guide.’ 

Don’t  forget  that,  my  daughter,  come  what  will. 
Now  kiss  me,  and  good  by.  No,  thank  you;  I can’t 
stay  for  the  pudding.  Two  o’clock.  Let  us  see.  It  will 
be  lonely  for  you  and  little  brother,  this  afternoon,  in 
the  storm.  I may  not  get  home  before  dark,  and  if 
11 


162 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


not,  you’d  better  speak  to  Robert,  when  he  brings  the 
mail,  and  ask  him  to  study  here  this  evening.” 

‘‘O,  ho,  who’s  scat?'^'^  said  Benjie,  looking  up  from 
his  plate,  in  which  he  was  floating  a raft  of  bread  on  a 
small  pond  of  sirup. 

“Not  our  youngest,  surely,”  said  his  father,  laugh- 
ing. “ Good  by,  my  children.” 

And  in  another  moment  Dr.  Prescott  was  out  again 
in  the  wildness  of  the  storm ; but  now  the  wind  had 
changed,  and  was  blowing  from  north  to  south,  drop- 
ping its  voice  occasionally,  as  if  it  had  half  a mind  to 
give  up  the  contest,  then  raging  again  with  renewed 
force. 

“It  will  clear  away  before  midnight,”  thought  the 
doctor,  as  he  walked  his  horse  over  the  trembling 
bridge.  “ Glad  of  that.  A spring  freshet  would  give 
these  timbers  a heavy  strain.” 

Then  driving  on  up  the  hill,  he  reflected  that  the  ice 
was  likely  to  “ go  out  weak  ” this  year,  and  there  was 
not  as  much  danger  as  usual  of  the*  old  bridge.  But 
all  the  while  the  rain  was  falling  steadily.  Marian, 
alone  with  Benjie,  found  the  afternoon  dull.  Night  set 
in,  and  her  father  had  not  returned.  That  was  nothing 
very  strange;  but  where  was  Robert,  that  he  did  not 
come  with  the  mail  ? 

She  kept  Benjie  awake  long  after  his  usual  bedtime, 
because  she  dreaded  the  lonesome  hush  which  would 
creep  over  the  house  when  he  should  be  asleep.  She 
sent  him  for  apples,  and  he  came  back  shouting 
gleefully,  — 

“ Cellar’s  afloat ! Tubs  a-swimming ! ” 


A SPRING  FRESHET. 


163 


“Is  it  possible?  Well,  if  we  can’t  have  apples,  little 
brother,  we’ll  have  something  better.” 

So  they  boiled  molasses  candy  in  a basin  over  the 
coals,  and  little  brother  helped  pull  it  with  his  awkward 
fingers,  leaving  sticky  traces  on  his  face  and  jacket. 
Then  they  played  at  backgammon,  a long  game,  for 
Benjie  was  learning,  and  could  count  but  slowly.  But 
still  Robert  did  not  come. 

The  clock  struck  nine.  Benjie  curled  down  upon  the 
rug,  to  listen  to  the  story  of  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk, 
and  in  two  minutes  was  fast  asleep.  Marian  put  more 
wood  on  the  fire,  choosing  beech  sticks  because  they 
would  crackle  sociably,  and  went  to  the  window  to  look 
out.  Nothing  but  blackness.  Over  the  gate  the  elm 
tree  writhed  like  a distracted  goblin ; she  could  fancy 
it  wringing  its  hands. 

She  dropped  the  curtain,  laid  Benjie  on  the  sofa,  and 
came  back  to  her  seat  in  her  mother’s  low  rocking^ 
chair.  The  mail  was  probably  delayed  by  the  storm. 
Robert  would  be  in  presently.  He  never  failed  to  call 
on  his  way  from  the  post-ofiice.  There  was  no  sense  in 
being  nervous;  but  the  wildness  without  and  the  still- 
ness within  combined  to  be  very  oppressive. 

“ Cellar’s  afloat.  Tubs  a-swimming.” 

Why,  it  must  be  a freshet.  Marian  hated  the  dull, 
monotonous  sound  of  the  water  pouring  into  the  cis- 
tern. It  called  to  mind  the  ocean,  which  roared  between 
her  mother  and  home,  and  the  familiar  vase  on  the 
mantel  — an  alabaster  hand  holding  up  a shell  — made 
her  shudder,  as  if  it  were  her  mother’s  hand  rising 
from  the  sea. 

The  clock  struck  ten.  It  was  clear  that  Robert  was 


164 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


not  coming:  he  never  did  come  as  late  as  ten.  Marian 
stirred  the  fire,  and  wrapping  herself  in  a shawl,  lay 
down  beside  Benjie  on  the  wide,  old-fashioned  sofa. 
Not  that  she  felt  sleepy;  but  in  the  dreary  emptiness 
of  the  room,  it  was  a comfort  to  have  the  little  fellow 
in  her  arms.  She  would  not  put  him  in  bed  yet.  Her 
father  would  be  sure  to  come  soon.  Strange  what  had 
kept  Robert;  he  didn’t  usually  mind  storms.  But 
while  she  waited  and  wondered,  that  “little  sprite  from 
the  land  of  Nowhere”  glided  in  and  perched  upon  her 
eyelids.  She  no  longer  heard  the  wind,  though  it  still 
shook  the  house ; nor  the  clock,  though  it  never  ceased 
to  pace  off  the  time  with  slow  strides. 

It  struck  eleven,  then  twelve.  The  fire  burned  low. 
A brand  rolled  out  upon  the  hearth,  and  charred  a 
small  hole  in  the  rug.  Still  Marian  slept.  Why  not  ? 
What  signal  of  danger  could  come  to  her  dulled  ears 
through  those  thick,  close-drawn  curtains  ? 

Suddenly  there  fell  a great  calm.  The  North  Wind 
stopped  and  held  his  breath.  It  may  have  been  for 
horror  at  the  ruin  he  had  wrought ; it  may  have  been 
to  listen  to  the  hoarse  roar  of  many  waters.  The  river, 
which  had  been  only  little  Basset  yesterday,  sleeping 
under  a counterpane  of  snow,  had  swollen  now  to  mon- 
strous size,  and  was  rushing  headlong  over  his  banks. 
On,  on  with  the  might  of  a conqueror,  gathering  force 
as  he  goes,  the  mad  river  dashes  and  takes  to  himself 
all  that  comes  in  his  w^ay.  Great  sheets  of  ice  from 
far  up  stream  he  seizes,  tears  rudely,  and  piles  against 
the  piers  of  the  bridge,  tier  above  tier.  Now,  like  the 
wind,  Basset  stops  and  holds  his  breath.  He  has  de- 


A SPRING  FRESHET. 


165 


feated  himself,  and  built  up  a wall  of  frozen  masonry 
which  he  cannot  pass  over. 

But  a powerful  reenforcement  arrives.  Medumpscott 
stream,  two  miles  away,  breaks  through  a strong  dam, 
and  hurries  to  the  rescue.  Now  for  a revel.  Great 
logs,  and  shattered  mills,  and  up-torn  trees  batter 
against  the  frozen  wall,  and  it  gives  way.  The  pas- 
sage is  clear  now  for  Basset,  the  conqueror,  the  demon. 
He  and  Medumpscott  rush  thundering  down  stream, 
bearing  their  spoils,  and  among  them  the  poor  old 
tremulous  bridge. 

Boom ! Crash ! They  go,  shrieking,  — 

Out  of  our  way!  It’s  anight  of  revel!  The  law 
can’t  touch  running  water.  Follow  us  — if — you  — 
dare ! ” 


166 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


CHAPTER  XXL 

UPPER  WINDOWS. 

ARIAX  started  up  broad  awake,  every  nerve 
vibrating,  as  if  from  an  electric  shock.  In 
spite  of  the  muffling  curtains,  a roar  like  Ni- 
agara filled  the  room.  She  threw  up  the  window  and 
looked  out. 

It  was  a dream,  and  she  knew  it.  In  place  of  the 
snow-covered  river,  she  saw  a broad  sea  of  icebergs, 
and  dancing  on  the  icebergs,  like  a great  wooden  toy, 
the  Quinnebasset  bridge.  A dream?  O,  yes.  The 
Atlantic  Ocean  never  rolled  up  to  the  door-yard  before. 
Strange  she  couldn’t  wake ! Strange  the  moon  should 
be  there.  She  certainly  knew  that  moon,  staring 
through  the  clouds  with  a cold  face. 

A feeling  of  terror  seized  her,  such  as  she  always 
had  when  Thankful  chanted  “The  Last  Days”  over 
the  kitchen  stove  in  the  early  winter  mornings. 

“When  iYiQf'erce  North  Wind, 

With  his  airy  forces, 

Stirs  up  the  Baltic 
To  a foaming  fury. 

And  the  red  lightning. 

With  a storm  of  hail, 

Comes  hurling  — amain  -^down.” 


UPPER  WINDOWS, 


167 


How  often  Marian  had  begged  her  to  stop  that  dread- 
ful chant ! And  now  the  whole  world  was  roaring  it. 
Look ! the  fence  at  the  foot  of  the  garden  was  quite 
under  water.  The  flood  was  coming  nearer.  Marian 
could  see  it  creeping  up  the  south  slope  in  the  door- 
yard,  faster,  faster.  There  was  but  one  alternative  — 
to  rush  to  the  hill  behind  the  house,  or  drown. 

O,  Benjie,  Benjie,  wake  up ! ” cried  she,  shaking 
him  frantically. 

“ Let  me  ’lone,”  growled  Benjie,  always  savage  when 
aroused  in  the  night. 

‘‘But  you  must  get  up,  Benjie,  little  brother.  We’re 
going  to  be  drowned ! Do  you  hear  ? ” 

Benjie  was  fast  asleep  again. 

“What  shall  I,  shall  I do?”  groaned  the  poor 
sister. 

Seizing  him  in  her  arms,  she  half  led,  half  dragged 
him  to  the  west  door,  and  out  on  the  porch. 

Horror  of  horrors ! A stream  came  “ rushing  amain 
down  ” through  the  valley,  cutting  them  off  from  the 
hill.  Marian  clutched  the  porch  railing  in  blank  dis- 
may, and  a blind  dizziness  came  over  her.  Benjie, 
awake  at  last,  clung  to  her  waist,  moaning,  “ Mamie, 
Mamie ! ” too  frightened  to  cry. 

The  situation  was  appalling  enough  to  terrify  stouter 
hearts  than  Mamie’s  and  little  brother’s.  Dr.  Pres- 
cott’s house  stood  on  a narrow  ridge,  somewhat  higher 
than  the  surrounding  intervale.  This  ridge  made  a 
sudden  slope  to  the  valley,  a few  rods  up  the  river ; 
and  it  was  here  that  the  freshet  divided,  to  unite  again 
a little  below  at  another  slope.  Thus  the  house  was 


168 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


entirely  cut  off  from  the  high  land,  and  the  water  gain- 
ing on  every  side. 

‘‘Papa  ’n’  aunt  Flura  no  business  to  gone  off  and  left 
us,”  wailed  Benjie,  his  face  showing  very  white  through 
the  streaks  of  candy.  “Why  don’t  somebody  see 
to  us  ? ” 

The  frightened  clinging  of  the  little  arms  and  the 
despair  in  the  young  voice  impelled  Marian  to  answer, 
with  a calmness  which  surprised  herself,  — 

“ Hush,  little  brother.  God  is  right  here.  Don’t  be 
afraid.” 

“O,  so  he  is,”  murmured  Benjie,  reassured.  “I 
wouldn’t  wonder  if  he  should  send  along  a boat.” 

“ Don’t  talk,  dear ; I want  to  think.  Hark ! There 
is  poor  Zephyr  neighing  in  the  stable.  If  I go  to  her 
and  let  her  out,  perhaps  she  can  swim.  Benjie,  are  you 
willing  I should  go,  and  won’t  you  try  to  follow  ? ” 

“I  don’t  want  to  stay  all  ’lone.” 

“ But  I told  you,  little  brother,  God  is  here.  And 
I’ve  just  thought  of  something  for  you  to  do.  You  can 
go  up  stairs  and  ring  the  big  dinner-bell  out  of  the  win- 
dow. Somebody  will  hear  it,  and  know  we’re  in  trou- 
ble, and  come  for  us,  perhaps.” 

“ Yes,  I’ll  go,”  said  Benjie,  bravely. 

Marian  threw  a cloak  over  her  head,  for  her  teeth 
were  chattering  with  cold  and  terror,  and  rushing  to 
the  barn,  tried  to  push  back  the  large  door  in  front. 
She  could  not  move  it.  Swollen  by  the  rain,  it  stuck 
fast  in  its  groove.  The  side  door  which  led  directly  to 
the  horse-stalls  was  a foot  lower,  and  the  flood  was 
already  above  the  threshold.  If  Marian  had  been  rash 
in  leaving  the  house,  there  was  no  time  for  shrinking 


UPPER  WINDOWS, 


169 


now.  She  lifted  the  latch,  and  groped  her  way  to 
Zephyr’s  crib.  The  floor  of  the  stable  was  an  inclined 
plane,  and  the  poor  beast  had  crowded  herself  into  the 
upper  corner ; but  the  waters  were  just  reaching  there, 
Marian  could  feel  them  creeping  higher  and  higher 
above  her  feet.  Quite  forgetting  the  red  cow  next 
door,  though  she  lowed  lustily,  Marian  tugged  at  the 
halter,  which  Zephyr,  in  her  frenzy,  had  drawn  tight 
about  her  neck.  It  seemed  as  if  the  knot  would  never 
unloose;  and,  while  Marian  worked  at  it,  the  loud 
ding-dong  from  the  chamber  window  ceased;  Benjie 
had  thrown  down  the  dinner-bell  in  despair.  Above 
the  roaring  of  the  tide  she  could  hear  his  frightened 
cry,  — 

“ Mamie,  Mamie,  O,  do  come,  Mamie.” 

“ Coming,  Benjie.” 

At  the  last  desperate  twitch  the  knot  gave  way. 
Marian  seized  Zephyr  by  the  mane,  and  walking 
through  the  ice-cold  water,  led  her  straight  up  to  the 
porch  steps.  Not  till  then  did  it  occur  to  her  to  won- 
der if  she  had  done  a wise  thing.  Might  not  Zephyr 
have  been  safer  in  the  stable  ? 

At  any  rate,  if  the  thing  had  not  been  done,  she 
could  not  have  attempted  it  now.  She  had  improved 
the  last  moment,  and  incurred  a foolish  risk.  A little 
later,  and  the  strong  current  must  have  overpowered 
both  her  and  the  horse.  Moment  by  moment  the  al- 
ready narrow  strip  of  land  on  which  the  house  stood 
was  growing  narrower  still.  Marian  shuddered 
as  she  recalled  the  story  of  the  great  freshet  of 
1832,  which  had  completely  deluged  this  same  inter- 
vale, and  carried  off  the  cottage  where  Thankful  Works 


170 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


was  born.  Keller  once  said  Thankful  had  caught 
the  freshet  in  her  eyes,  and  then  they  had  both 
laughed.  Should  she  ever  laugh  again  ? If  God  saw 
and  knew,  why  did  he  not  send  help  ? A boat,  a raft, 
a live  human  being  ? O,  it  was  very  strange. 

Now  the  waters  had  reached  the  lower  edge  of  the 
porch.  A poor  dead  lamb,  separated  from  its  ghastly 
flock  by  the  press  of  ice,  was  hurled  against  the  step. 
Farther  out  in  the  stream  Marian  saw  a horse  floating 
down,  with  a sleigh  dragging  at  his  heels. 

For  the  first  time  it  flashed  upon  her  that  her  father 
might  be  drowned ! She  remembered  there  were  two 
bridges  this  side  of  the  Wix  neighborhood.  With  a 
white,  fixed  face  she  drew  Benjie  into  the  house,  and 
would  have  drawn  Zephyr  also;  but  the  half  crazed 
animal  paced  snorting  up  and  down  the  porch,  and  as 
the  water  broke  over  it,  plunged,  or  was  borne,  out  into 
the  stream. 

Marian  saw  her  go  without  a regret.  It  had  come 
to  that.  Zephyr  must  drown;  but  so  must  she  and 
Benjie.  God  did  not  care.  They  need  not  have 
drowned  if  papa  had  been  at  home  to  foresee  the  dan- 
ger. If  Mr.  Dickey  hadn’t  fallen ! If  Tom  hadn’t  gone 
and  taken  aunt  Filura ! If  Robert  had  only  come  in,  as 
he  had  always  done  before ! Such  a tangle  of  IFS ! 
God  did  not  care. 

Hush!  Yes,  he  did  care.  And  like  a ray  of  light 
flashed  up  that  golden  line  of  Spenser,  — 

“ It  chanced ; Eternal  God  that  chance  did  guide.” 

“Yes,  God  does  care.  It  isn’t  a tangle  of  ifs.  He 
never  forgot  the  little  sparrows;  he  can’t  forget  his 


MARIAN  AND  BENJIE.  Page  171. 


UPPER  WINDOWS, 


171 


children.  If  we  drown,  it  is  his  will.  It  will  be  righ^ 
for  it  is  his  will.” 

The  water  was  rushing  in  under  the  doors,  up 
through  the  carpet. 

“ Benjie,  dear,  O,  little  Benjie,”  said  Marian,  pressing 
him  close.  ‘‘Don’t  grieve  any  more.  Somebody  will 
think  of  us ; somebody  will  come.” 

“ They  must’ve  heard  the  bell,”  said  Benjie,  sobbing 
tears  of  sweetened  water.  “I  rang,  n’  I rang,  n’  I 
rung.  Folks  in  Boston  heard ; couldn’t  help  it,  I rung 
so  hard.” 

“ Benjie,  we  must  go  up  stairs ; the  water  is  over  our 
ankles.  We  won’t  drown  till  the  last  minute;  we’ll 
keep  a brave  heart,  little  brother.  We  know  who 
is  with  us,  and  never  forgets  us.” 

The  tone  was  almost  joyful.  Marian  seemed  sud- 
denly exalted  above  herself,  as  persons  of  her  tempera- 
ment often  are  exalted  in  the  presence  of  danger.  An 
unnatural  light  beamed  in  her  eyes  as  she  tripped  up 
stairs ; but  it  was  the  light  of  a soul  at  peace. 

“Now  we’ll  look  on  life  from  upper  windows,”  said 
she,  throwing  up  the  sash.  “We’re  above  the  world, 
Benjie.  We  understand  how  aunt  Filura  feels!” 

Lights  were  gleaming  from  all  the  neighboring 
houses,  making  intersecting  paths  of  flame  upon  the 
moving  sea.  It  seemed  as  if  the  river  were  changed 
into  a vast  harbor  of  illuminated  ships.  Or  one  might 
fancy  that  Quinnebasset  had  been  spirited  away,  and  a 
baby  V enice  put  in  her  place. 

A noisy  little  Venice;  for  now  the  bells  began  to 
ring,  as  they  had  not  rung  before  since  Deacon  Jud- 
kins’s bam  was  burned,  and  the  brindled  cow  in  it. 


172 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


Marian  could  dimly  see  men  running  down  the  street, 
and  hear  them  calling  to  one  another.  The  sight  of 
human  beings  in  the  outer  world  gave  her  a thrill  of 
courage  which  shook  her  unearthly  calmness. 

“ Help ! Help !”  she  shouted,  while  Benjie  screamed, 
“ Fire  ! Fire ! ” 

Nobody  heard,  nobody  answered. 

Inch  by  inch  the  water  was  creeping  up  the  stairs.  By 
the  light  of  the  hanging  lamp  in  the  hall  below,  Marian 
could  see  it  clearly,  and  on  its  surface  familiar  objects 
it  had  picked  up  in  its  course.  The  backgammon- 
board  sailed  quietly  over  the  sitting-room  threshold,  in 
company  with  a charred  brand  from  the  hearth,  and  one 
of  Benjie’s  boots.  A strange  fleet. 

The  ice  without  beat  against  the  house  with  a dull 
click.  Chilled  to  the  heart,  courage  waning,  Marian 
sank  down  upon  the  broad  window-seat  with  Benjie  on 
her  lap,  while  the  cat  mewed  and  rubbed  against  her 
feet.  Then  came  a crashing  of  glass  down  stairs.  The 
flood  was  breaking  into  the  lower  windows.  Benjie 
screamed. 

‘‘Darling,  don’t  cry,”  said  Marian,  with  trembling 
faith.  “You  know  that  God  cares  for  the  little  spar- 
rows.” 

“Yes,  he  used  to;  but  he  don’t  care  a thing  about 
my  martins,”  sobbed  Benjie,  as  the  martin-house  was 
borne  swiftly  past,  its  slender  pole  snapped  by  the 
rushing  ice.  “Martins  are  just  as  good  as  sparrows; 
but  they  won’t  have  any  house  to  go  to  next  sum- 
mer.” 

Marian  did  not  answer.  She  only  drew  her  little 


UPPER  WINDOWS. 


173 


brother  close  to  her  heart,  and  waited.  For  what? 
God  knew. 

A heavy  cloud  sailed  across  the  moon.  She  could 
not  see  the  river  bank,  except  where  its  outline  was 
pricked  out  here  and  there  by  a point  of  light.  The 
hall  lamp  burned  low;  but  it  showed  the  water  steal- 
ing cruelly  up  the  staircase.  Marian  watched  it  with  a 
strange  fascination,  while  Benjie  clung  to  her  with  a 
clasp  that  was  absolute  pain. 

Dr.  Prescott ! Marian ! ” 

The  voice  came  to  her  from  the  darkness  without. 
She  sprang  up  with  a joyful  cry, — 

“O,  Robert,  I thought  you  would  come!  Where 
are  you?  I can’t  see.” 

“ Here,  under  the  window.  How  many  are  there  in 
the  house  ? ” 

“Only  Benjie  and  I.  Where  is  my  father?” 

“Can  you  reach  Benjie  down  to  me?  No,  you 
can’t ; it’s  too  far.  Go  across  to  your  room.  Take  the 
light.  Get  out  on  the  roof  of  the  porch.  We’ll  row 
round  and  take  you  off.” 

The  boat  with  its  two  misty  figures  glided  out  of 
sight.  Marian  ran  first  into  her  father’s  room,  where 
a candlestick,  with  matches  in  its  broad  tray,  stood 
on  the  t&ble  by  the  bedside,  as  it  had  stood  ever  since 
•she  could  remember;  for  the  good  doctor  never  lay 
down  to  rest  without  being  prepared  to  rise  at  a mo- 
ment’s warning.  Marian  struck  a light,  and  j^lacing 
the  candlestick  upon  the  bureau  in  her  own  room, 
opened  the  window  over  the  porch,  and  called, 
“ Robert.”  He  had  not  come.  The  chilling  wind 
blew  in,  and  with  the  strange  presence  of  mind,  which 


174 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


she  thought  at  the  time  was  not  at  all  like  herself,  she 
remembered  that  Benjie’s  cap  and  overcoat  were  in  the 
hall  closet  down  stairs ; but  she  could  get  him  a shawl 
out  of  her  own  wardrobe. 

“Never  mind,  little  brother;  we’ll  be  warm,  some- 
how,” said  she,  throwing  the  shawl  over  his  head,  and 
pinning  it  under  his  chin  baby-fashion. 

The  boat  had  come  at  last.  She  heard  the  splash- 
ing of  oars,  and  climbed  out  upon  the  slippery  roof  of 
the  porch,  which  shook  beneath  her  from  the  swift  tor- 
rent. Next  came  Benjie  in  his  clumsy  drapery,  and 
last  of  all  the  cat. 

“ Move  cautiously,  for  Heaven’s  sake,  Marian,”  cried 
Robert;  “I  cannot  leave  the  boat  to  help  you.  Be 
cool,  and  there’s  no  danger.” 

Tightly  grasping  Benjie’s  hand,  fully  conscious 
that  a careless  step  might  slide  them  both  into  the 
water,  Marian  worked  her  slow  way  down  the  slope. 
In  the  middle  of  the  short  journey  Benjie’s  courage 
failed. 

“ I’m  scat,  Mamie ; I’m  awful  scat ! Don’t  let’s  go. 
Do  6ome  back.” 

He  tugged  at  her  dress  in  a sort  of  fury.  Marian 
felt  her  insecure  grasp  of  the  wet  shingles  giving  way. 
A mortal  terror  seized  her.  * 

“ I will  go  away  and  leave  you  alone,  Benjie,”  said 
Robert,  sternly,  “ if  you  cry  any  more.  Let  go  Mamie’s 
dress.  Here,  Marian,  steady  yourself  by  this.” 

And  he  reached  up  to  her  the  blade  of  an  oar,  hold- 
ing the  handle  firmly  in  his  right  hand,  while  with 
his  left  oar  he  fought  back  the  flood.  A moment 


UPPER  WINDOWS, 


175 


longer,  and  Marian,  regaining  her  footing,  had  dragged 
Benjie  to  the  eaves. 

“ The  water-spout  is  strong.  Cling  to  it,  Marian.” 

She  did  so,  while  Benjie  clung  to  her.  Robert 
quickly  laid  down  the  oars,  and  stood  up  on  the  middle 
seat  of  the  boat. 

“Hold  her  steady,  Mr.  Nason,”  said  he.  “Now, 
Benjie,  drop  into  my  arms.  I won’t  let  you  fall.” 

The  little  fellow  shrank  back ; but  Marian,  letting  go 
the  water-spout,  turned  and  reached  him  down  to 
Robert,  who  stowed  him  away  in  the  bottom  of  the 
boat. 

“Now,  Marian.” 

And  she  slid  down  into  Robert’s  arms. 

“Safe,  safe,”  thought  she,  with  an  exultant  thrill. 
“ I thought  God  meant  it  to  be  so ; but  I wasn’t  sure.” 


176 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


NO  HEAD. 


S Robert  and  Mr.  Xason  rowed  the  boat  up 
the  swift  current,  Marian  sat  in  shivering  si- 
lence, thinking  how  near  she  and  Benjie  had 
been  to  the  upper  world.  For  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
she  imagined  how  beautiful  it  would  have  been  if  she 
had  gone  with  little  brother  in  her  arms.  Not  that 
she  had  the  least  desire  to  die ; only  when  one  has  to 
leave  this  lovely  world,  it  must  be  sweet  to  go  with 
friends.  But  O,  how  glad  she  was  to  find  herself 
alive ! 

The  two  men  worked  hard  to  push  back  the  logs 
and  blocks  of  ice.  “ If  here  ain’t  a piece  of  Carter’s 
grist-mill!  I believe  to  my  soul  Seven-Mile  Brook 
has  overflowed,”  said  Mr.  Nason.  “This  beats  all.” 
As  if  anything  could  surprise  him  on  such  a night  as 
this.  Marian  twisted  the  meaning  of  the  words  to  ^uit 
her  own  wild  fancy. 

“ Have  I come  to  the  place  ‘ where  the  brook  and 
river  meet  ’ ? ” thought  she.  “ Yes,  I’m  almost  there. 
I never  shall  be  a child  any  more.  I’ve  felt  all  winter 
that  I was  coming  to  it.  Hear  the  oars  dip  and  scrape. 
Now,  when  we  touch  dry  land,  I shall  begin  to  be  a 
woman. 


NO  HEAD. 


177 


“I  know  what  it  means  to  be  a woman.  It  means 
to  forget  yourself,  and  take  care  of  other  people.  It 
means  to  make  your  father  happy;  to  cherish  your 
brother  Benjie;  to  make  home  just  as  beautiful  as  you 
can  without  your  mother;  not  to  mind  when  you  burn 
your  fingers ; not  to  cry  even  when  your  house  slips 
from  under  your  feet,  and  floats  down  river ; not  to  be 
flimsy. 

“ I see  it  all  now  like  a picture.  Every  time  I do 
my  duty  heartily,  it  makes  a bright  spot  in  my  char- 
acter ; but  the  spots  are  few  and  far  between,  like 
those  little  points  of  light  on  the  shore.  Can’t  I see  ? 
Don’t  I know  ? ” 

The  boat  stopped  with  a shock  which  made  it  reel 
from  side  to  side.  Benjie  was  first  drawn  out,  with 
his  little  feet  tangled  in  the  shawl  fringe. 

“Didn’t  know  we’s  going  to  Miss  ErNeil’s,”  he  mut- 
tered, angrily. 

But  there  they  were.  It  was  the  first  dry  land. 
The  flood  had  come  up  to  the  little  grass-plot  which 
she  cut  for  her  cat,  and  there  it  was  stayed.  A crowd 
of  people  were  gathered.  Miriam  saw  no  one  but  her 
father.  He  was  alive,  he  was  safe,  holding  out  his 
arms  to  her  and  little  brother  with  speechless  gratitude. 
There  were  tears  in  many  eyes,  but  Miss  O’Neil  was 
the  first  to  break  silence.  Any  mark  of  alSection  was 
sure  to  set  the  friendless  creature  to  scolding ; for,  as 
she  virtuously  declared,  she  “ was  brought  up  never  to 
kiss.” 

“Well,  Miriam  Linscott,  I should  think  this  was 
pretty  works.  You’re  the  only  one  in  town  that  needed 
the  boat.  I guess  you  don’t  know  what  a job  it  was 

12 


178 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


to  pry  it  out  of  the  ice.  Why  didn’t  you  leave  the 
house  when  you  saw  it  was  beginning  to  rain  ?” 

I am  ashamed  to  say  that,  in  spite  of  herself,  Marian 
felt  that  same  scornful  dislike  creeping  over  her,  which 
she  always  did  feel  whenever  Miss  O’Neil  opened  her 
mouth.  So  near  death  as  the  child  had  just  been,  so 
full  of  sublime  thoughts,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that  at 
this  moment  she  felt  an  impulse  to  seize  the  irritating 
old  lady  and  give  her  a shaking.  Everybody  began 
to  talk  at  once.  ‘‘Wasn’t  it  tough  work,  Robert ? ” 
“ How  did  you  get  them  out  ? ” “ Is  the  water  up  to 

the  second  story  ? ” “ How  did  you  feel,  Marian  ? ” 

“ What  did  you  do  ? ” 

The  young  girl  could  not  speak.  She  turned  around 
to  Robert,  remembering  she  had  not  thanked  him  yet ; 
but  the  words  would  not  come. 

There  was,  as  she  soon  found,  a general  panic.  Most 
of  the  villagers  had  packed  all  their  furniture,  and  car- 
ried it  into  their  chambers.  She  wondered  she  had 
never  thought  of  that.  Everybody  had  been  pre- 
pared ; still  the  doctor’s  house  was  the  only  one  in 
town  which  had  been  actually  flooded. 

“ It’s  my  opinion  that  the  water  will  stop  where  it  is, 
and  there  won’t  be  any  more  damage,”  said  Mr.  Nason. 

“ You  don’t  know  anything  about  the  foreknowledge 
of  God,”  returned  Miss  O’Neil,  with  a reproving  scowl. 

Scarcely  knowing  what  she  did,  Marian  found  her- 
self walking  between  her  father  and  Mr.  Loring  to- 
wards Mr.  Willard’s  house,  while  Robert  followed  with 
Benjie  in  his  arms,  and  Miss  O’Neil  screamed  after 
them  that  they  ought  to  stay  at  her  house ; she  had  a 


MARIAN’S  PLEASANT  DREAMS.  Page  179. 


NO  HEAD, 


179 


whole  mince  pie  and  a pound  of  sausages,  and  should 
admire  to  get  them  some  breakfast. 

The  street  was  full  of  water,  mud,  and  ice,  as  deep 
as  the  tops  of  the  men’s  boots.  Mr.  Nason  remarked 
encouragingly  that  it  was  “ considerable  scant  of  an 
eighth  of  a mile;”  but  to  poor  Marian  it  was  an  ap- 
palling journey.  Aunt  Esther  gave  her  a w;n*m  re- 
ception of  rose  blankets  and  composition  tea,  while 
Judith,  eager  to  express  sympathy,  ran  round  and 
round  after  aromatic  vinegar,  which  she  never  found. 

Tired  as  she  w^as,  Marian  could  not  sleep  till  she 
knew  the  fate  of  her  house.  Must  it  be  carried  over 
the  falls  ? That  dear,  dear  home ! She  could  not  be 
too  glad  that  her  mother  was  spared  this  terrible  sus- 
pense. 

Presently  she  learned  that  the  freshet  had  stopped. 
The  men  who  w^ere  keeping  watch  of  the  tide-mark 
said  the  water  had  not  risen  for  ten  minutes ; if  it 
should  not  rise  for  ten  minutes  more,  the  danger  was 
past.  Word  came  next  that  it  had  sunk  just  a hair’s 
breadth.  When  Marian  heard  that,  she  went  to  sleep 
at  once,  and  did  not  awake  till  the  next  afternoon. 
She  had  no  idea  where  she  was.  Benjie  was  sitting 
on  the  bed-post  surveying  her  with  his  astonished  blue 
eyes.  She  thought  he  was  a cherub  dancing  a tight- 
rope. 

‘‘  Had  salt  fish  for  dinner,  Mamie,”  he  was  saying ; 
‘‘  but  if  you  don’t  get  up  you  won’t  have  any  ; they’re 
putting  it  into  the  cellar- way.” 

Then  Marian  had  to  begin  away  back  at  the  time 
when  her  mother  went  to  Cuba,  and  follow  along  to 
Thankful’s  marriage,  and  Mr.  Dickey’s  fall  from  the 


180 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


scaffold,  and  Robert’s  not  bringing  the  mail,  before  she 
could  recollect  last  night’s  horror.  When  it  did  come 
back,  it  came  like  “ the  red  lightning,  with  a storm  of 
hail.”  She  started  up  in  a moment  to  look  out  of  the 
window  and  see  if  the  bridge  was  really  gone.  Yes, 
nothing  left  but  the  poor  old  piers,  and  those  half 
drowned  in  the  treacherous  flood.  The  ice  was  out, 
but  countless  logs  were  floating  down,  rocking  and 
capsizing  in  the  rapid  current. 

“ Where  is  papa  ? ” 

Gone  to  Mr.  Liscom’s  to  board  till  our  house  dries 
off,”  replied  Benjie,  standing  on  his  head.  These  sud- 
den and  marvellous  revolutions  in  the  common  order 
of  things  struck  little  brother  as  amazingly  jolly. 

‘‘  And  where  is  Zephyr  ? ” 

Benjie  didn’t  know.  Coolly  “ exposed  she’d  gone 
down  stream  long  o’  the  ice.  Hadn’t  heard  anybody 
say.” 

And  I may  as  well  remark,  in  passing,  that  nobody 
ever  did  ‘‘  hear  anybody  say  ; ” but  it  was  easy  to  guess 
the  fate  of  the  red  roan  steed.  Marian  was  nearly  wild 
with  remorse.  Why  hadn’t  she  let  the  horse  alone,  as 
she  did  the  cow,  which  had  come  out  alive  and  well. 
Must  she  always  act  first  and  think  afterwards  ? Rob- 
ert tried  to  console  her  by  saying  she  had  washed  her 
hands  of  a very  poor  piece  of  property.  Zephyr  had 
a cataract  coming  over  one  eye,  her  feet  were  getting 
useless,  and  her  lungs  pretty  far  gone. 

“But  what  of  that?”  said  Marian,  indignantly. 
“Do  we  love  our  friends  the  less  because  they  are  sick? 
I w’on’t  hear  you  call  my  Zephyr  a piece  of  property, 
and  I won’t  take  what  you  call  a sensible  view.  I 


NO  HEAD, 


181 


loved  tbat  horse,  and  I didn’t  care  whether  she  had 
any  feet,  or  eyes,  or  windpipe;  why  should  I?  ” 

It  was  of  no  use  to  scold  Robert,  who  only  fell  into 
spasms  of  laughter. 

Poor  little  red-headed  Zephyr,  I’d  like  to  beg  a 
hair  of  her  for  memory.” 

But  that  was  too  much.  As  Marian  truly  said,  “ she 
was  no  saint,  she  could  not  bear  everything”  — espe- 
cially from  Robert,  who  was  “not  a true  mourner.” 
The  young  man  wiped  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  and 
promised  solemnly  he  would  never  allude  to  Marian’s 
loss  from  that  time  henceforth  ; and  he  kept  his  word. 

For  a week  or  two,  while  the  house  was  “drying 
off,”  Marian  and  Benjie  staid  at  Mr.  Willard’s,  and  Dr. 
Prescott  at  the  hotel.  One  result  of  this  arrangement 
was,  that  the  doctor  mortally  offended  Mr.  Liscora,  as 
might  have  been  anticipated.  He  saw  liquor  sold 
slyly,  and  could  not  help  expressing  his  mind  on  the 
subject.  The  doctor  had  very  much  of  what  may  be 
called  moral  severity ; he  could  not  wink  at  wrong- 
doing, and  was  sometimes  led  to  take  up  matters  which 
other  people  regarded  as  none  of  his  business. 

Another  result  of  the  breaking-up  was,  that  Marian 
learned  a few  lessons  in  housekeeping ; that  is  to  say, 
she  watched  the  ways  at  the  Willards’,  and  determined 
to  do  everything  just  as  aunt  Esther  didn’t.  But  she 
shall  tell  her  domestic  trials  in  her  own  words. 

Miss  Tottenham, 

April  14.  It  is  an  ungrateful  question  to  ask ; but 
what’s  the  use  of  bread  puddings  three  times  a week  ? 
Is  it  “ equinomical  ” ? Aunt  Esther  thinks  so.  She 


.182 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


thinks  it’s  all  that  keeps  the  Willard  family  together. 
But  mother  never  managed  in  that  way,  and  I know 
my  father  wouldn’t  stand  it. 

I am  glad,  so  glad,  we’ve  got  home.  I could  see 
we  made  aunt  Esther  some  trouble,  for  they  use  differ- 
ent dishes  when  they  have  company.  What  an  idea! 
It  seems  really  deceitful.  And  it  was  well  we  came 
away  before  we  got  “ drawn  in  ” to  a rug.  She  ac- 
tually asked  if  I wouldn’t  give  her  my  dress  and 
Benjie’s  jacket  when  they  needed  mending  again,  they 
would  make  such  nice  ‘‘groundwork.”  I suppose  she 
is  the  smartest  woman  in  Quinnebasset,  in  the  Yankee 
sense ; but  nothing  would  tempt  me  to  be  as  smart  as 
she  is;  it  does  make  a house  so  uncomfortable.  Only 
think,  the  Willards,  little  and  big,  are  in  the  habit  of 
spending  their  evenings  in  the  kitchen.  It’s  like  stir- 
ring up  a civil  war  to  get  aunt  Esther’s  consent  to  any- 
thing else.  When  Benjie  and  I were  there,  Robert 
insisted  on  having  fires  in  the  sitting-room ; but  she 
said  we  needn’t  ask  her  to  come  in,  she  should  only 
litter  up  with  her  rags.  It  was  the  best  part  of  it, 
having  her  out  of  the  way.  I knew  she  was  very 
much  disgusted ; but  I shouldn’t  have  cared  a speck, 
if  I hadn’t  seen  that  it  made  Judith  unhappy. 

Now  that  we  have  come  back  to  the  dear  old  home, 
which,  by  the  way,  is  just  as  good  as  new,  I mean  it 
shall  be  a happy  place,  if  it  does  take  a dust-pan  and 
brush.  Not  being  very  “smart,”!  can  spend  more 
time  over  things  than  aunt  Esther  does.  I won’t  let 
my  potatoes  make  great  eyes  at  one  another,  because 
they  haven’t  been  pared  properly.  I do  and  will  pick 
out  their  eyes,  and  I do  and  will  mash  them  and  thresh 


NO  HEAD, 


183 


them  till  they  turn  as  white  and  foamy  as  a pyramid 
of  ice-cream,  just  like  Thankful’s.  That’s  easy  enough. 
And  it’s  easy  not  to  wear  blue  and  yellow  calico,  with 
your  hair  done  in  a pug,  and  not  to  cut  rags ! But 
what  troubles  me  is  how  to  do  the  cooking.  Yes,  Miss 
Tottenham. 

I can  keep  my  lamp-chimneys  bright  with  soap  and 
water ; I can  keep  a gay  fire  and  shiny  andirons,  and 
fadge  up  pretty  things  out  of  moss  and  pasteboard. 
You  ought  to  see  a wooden  vase  Thankful  had  a man 
at  the  Poonoosac  mills  turn  for  me.  I’ve  adorned  it 
with  decalcomania,  and  now  the  first  flower  that  winks 
this  year  I shall  catch  and  put  in  it. 

Yes,  indeed;  as  far  as  the  sitting-room,  I manage 
nicely.  Who  couldn’t?  My  father  pats  me  on  the 
head,  and  looks  pleased  when  he  sees  his  dressing-gown 
and  slippers  walk  up  to  the  arm-chair  the  moment  sup- 
per is  over.  Mr.  Loring  praises  my  housekeeping, 
though  he  knows  nothing  about  it.  That’s  what  you 
may  call  bar  soap,  coming  from  a lawyer ; same,  nature 
as  soft  soap,  though.  The  house  does  look  well  as  far 
as  a man  can  see ; but  what  troubles  me  is  how  — to 
do  — the  cooking ! 

I should  like  to  feast  my  father  royally ; but  I can’t 
— on  crackers.  It  makes  me  think  of  Hafed’s  Dream, 
where  you  can’t  tell  with  any  certainty  whether  a horse 
is  a horse,  or  only  a “ wool-ox.”  If  I think  I’m  going 
to  make  puffs,  the  things  won’t  puflf,  or  they  go  and 
burst.  The  bread  doesn’t  pay  the  least  attention  to  the 
yeast,  though  I use  the  “What  Cheer,”  which  is  as 
good  as  any.  Then  I tried  biscuits,  and  couldn’t  think 


184 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


what  ailed  them,  till  I found  I had  used  cream  of  tartar 
instead  of  soda. 

If  we  could  only  keep  a girl ! I’ve  been  very  polite 
to  every  one  that  has  come,  and  treated  her  like  com- 
pany ; but  it  doesn’t  do  any  good.  Girls  worCt  stay, 
and  when  they  won’t,  they  won’t,  you  may  depend  on’t. 
My  father  says  it  is  a society  question,  and  the  roots 
of  it  lie  at  — I’ve-forgot-what ; but  I don’t  see  that  it 
makes  any  dijSTerence  where  the  roots  lie,  if  you  can’t 
keep  a girl. 

It’s  my  private  suspicion  that  Thankful  would  be 
glad  to  come  back.  She  looks  very  wistful  whenever 
I see  her,  which  is  not  often,  for  her  husband  has  nailed 
her  fast  to  the  buttery,  and  keeps  her  making  molasses 
doughnuts  and  molasses  custards.  That’s'  what  Mrs. 
Morrison,  of  Poonoosac,  told  me.  Poor  old  Thankful ! 
I wonder  what  she  thinks  now  of  my  father’s  “candid 
opinion  of  James.” 

Aunt  Filura  comes  and  helps  me  sometimes,  but  she 
doesn’t  know  much.  She  and  aunt  Polly  live  together, 
sort  of  sweet  and  dried  up,  like  a couple  of  raisins  on 
one  stem ; and  aunt  Polly  does  the  housework,  while 
aunt  Filura  weaves  rugs.  Mother  and  Pauline  won’t 
come  home  till  June,  and  meantime  I must  manage  as 
well  as  I can.  Aunt  Hinsdale  sends  in  delicious  pies 
sometimes,  but  I shouldn’t  dare  go  to  her  for  advice, 
she  is  so  correct,  and  seemed  so  surprised  because  I 
never  had  tried  out  any  lard. 

This  is  a queer  world.  Judith  came  over  last  night 
to  tell  me  Robert  had  sent  home  a Stuart  stove,  and 
aunt  Esther  sent  it  back  again  because  they  couldn’t 
afford  it.  She  likes  the  old  cracked  stove,  though  it 


NO  HEAD. 


185 


burns  the  top  of  the  bread  and  leaves  the  bottom  raw. 
Robert  can’t  see  that  she  has  any  business  “ taking  such 
an  interest,”  and  is  very  much  vexed  ; but  Mr.  Willard 
thinks  it  is  all  right,  and  Judith  never  dares  say  her 
soul  is  her  own.  If  she  did,  aunt  Esther  wouldn’t  be- 
lieve it. 

Well,  we  all  have  our  trials.  Miss  O’Neil  is  con- 
stantly picking  upon  me  because  I didn’t  go  to  her 
house  on  the  night  of  the  freshet.  . She  asks  me  if  I 
think  my  mother  will  be  brought  home  to  be  buried,  or 
be  laid  beside  grandma  Hinsdale  in  the  Island  of 
Havana.  My  father  laughs  at  this,  but  I can’t:  it’s  too 
malicious.  Then  she  inspects  the  kitchen  daily,  and 
makes  reports  all  over  the  village.  She’s  my  horror, 
my  terror,  my  pestilence  that  walketh  at  noonday. 

Judith  says.  Why  do  I mind  her?  Judith  may  well 
talk,  I should  think ! And  why  do  I expect  to  have 
things  in  perfect  order?  It  can’t  be  done  with  no 
head  in  the  kitchen. 

‘‘Judith,”  said  I,  “there  shall  be  a head  in  the 
kitchen,  if  it  has  to  grow^on  my  shoulders.  Look  at 
those  biscuits.  Putting  in  soda  instead  of  cream  of 
tartar  has  had  an  excellent  effect,  and  I begin  to  be 
encouraged.” 


186 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


COBWEBS. 


Miss  Tottenham. 

April  30. 

^^(jHERE  isn’t  any  head  to  the  kitchen,  and  I 
won’t  boast  again.  I have  a sore  on  my  left 
forefinger.  I told  Benjie  it  was  caused  by 
mending  his  clothes,  and  that  is  what  I shall  always 
think. 

Robert  sent  Judith  over  this  morning,  for  he  heard 
me  say  I hadn’t  slept  a wink,  though  I should  think  he 
would  know  Judith  isn’t  of  any  more  use  in  a kitchen 
than  a velvet  rocking-chair.  Xot  that  the  dear  child 
hasn’t  the  best  of  intentions;  but  I’ll  tell  you  what  she 
did.  She  scorched  her  new  empress  cloth  dress, 
scalded  her  arm,  and  melted  the  bottom  out  of  the  tea- 
kettle, just  getting  dinner.  I was  so  sorry,  for  it  was 
ever  so  kind  in  her  to  send  me  into  the  library  to  make 
up  my  sleep.  I know  liow  sensitive  she  is ; and  though 
my  father  was  unusually  polite,  neither  he  nor  any 
other  man  alive  could  eat  the  steak;  it  was  as  tough  as 
burnt  india-rubber. 

Judith  was  dreadfully  mortified,  and  after  dinner  she 
just  tipped  over  into  the  clothes  basket,  and  cried. 

‘‘If  I were  only  like  other  people!”  said  she. 


COB  WEBS, 


187 


I wish  she  wouldn’t  pick  herself  to  pieces,  as  if  she 
were  an  eight-day  clock. 

“ Why,  you  are  like  other  people,”  said  I,  though  I 
am  afraid  I didn’t  quite  mean  it,  either ; only  I wanted 
to  comfort  her  a little. 

‘‘You  needn’t  talk  so,  Marian,”  said  she,  j^assion- 
ately.  “I  know  just  what  I am;  I am  arm’s  length 
away  from  the  other  girls ; they  call  me  absent-minded 
and  queer.  You  are  the  only  one  who  really  under- 
stands and  loves  me ; and  you  are  so  bright  and  happy, 
that  half  the  time  I envy  you  so,  it  almost  takes  away 
my  breath.” 

It  distresses  me  to  have  Judith  go  on  in  that  strain. 

“You  have  everything  heart  can  wish,  Marian;  you 
charm  people.  They  follow  you  about,  and  watch 
everything  you  do ; but,  as  for  me,  it  is  as  much  as  ever 
they  know  I am  in  the  world.” 

“Why,  Judith,  you  strange  girl;  I never  saw  any 
one  follow  me  about.” 

“Well,  Robert  does,  for  one,  and  Tid.  Tid  copies 
your  very  way  of  speaking ; and  what  vexes  me  is,  that 
you  don’t  care,  and  don’t  notice  it.  You  are  used  to 
being  admired,  and  take  it  as  a matter  of  course.  If 
you  could  be  in  my  place  a week,  I guess  you’d  see  the 
difference.” 

I don’t  know  but  my  father  is  partly  right,  when  he 
says,  “Judith  suffers  from  an  unoccupied,  introverted 
mind.”  I am  sure  she  imagines  all  this  about  me.  I 
only  wish  it  were  true. 

I told  her  it  was  too  bad  for  her  to  think  so  meanly 
of  herself.  I never  in  my  life  saw  anybody  that  didn’t 
like  her. 


188 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


‘‘To  be  sure”  said  she,  curling  her  lip.  “Nobody 
notices  me  enough  to  speak  of  me  at  all.” 

“ O,  hut  you  are  mistaken.  Pitkin  Jones  said  to  me, 
only  yesterday,  he  thought  you  were  very  superior.” 

I was  surprised  to  see  how  Judith  brightened  up  at 
that,  and  I couldn’t  help  adding,  “Not  that  Pitkin’s 
judgment  is  worth  much;  but  uncle  Hinsdale  said  the 
same  thing  of  you  last  week.” 

“ Is  it  possible?  ” said  she.  But  she  didn’t  seem  half 
so  much  flattered  by  that,  though  he  is  her  own  minis- 
ter. I don’t  see  what  makes  her  think  so  much  of  Pit- 
kin ; I consider  him  flat. 

Well,  Judith  got  her  eyes  so  red  she  wasn’t  fit  to  be 
seen,  and  I sent  her  home.  Here  it  is  evening,  and  I 
am  alone.  My  father  said  he  might  be  gone  all  night. 
Tom  has  been  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
perusing  the  almanac ; but  I’m  glad  he’s  gone  to  bed, 
for  he  smells  of  the  barn,  barny. 

My  finger  throbs  painfully;  but  that’s  nothing  to 
Benjie’s  being  sick.  I’m  afraid  that  child  is  coming 
down  witli  scarlet  fever;  his  eyes  are  as  red  as  fire, 
and  he  breathes  very  short. 

But  that  isn’t  all,  nor  half.  When  Robert  brought 
the  mail,  there  was  a letter  from  Havana,  which  I 
opened,  as  my  father  always  expects  me  to  do  when  he 
is  away,  and  it  said  mother  was  not  nearly  as  well. 

“ O,  Robert,”  said  I,  “you  don’t  think  it’s  anything 
to  be  frightened  about  — do  you  ? ” 

He  answered,  in  a very  cheerful  tone,  that  he  didn’t 
see  why  it  should  be.  The  only  wonder  was,  that 
mother  hadn’t  had  any  drawbacks  before.  But  I put 


COB  WEBS. 


189 


the  letter  into  his  hands,  and  when  he  had  read  it  all 
through,  I thought  his  face  changed. 

“Poor  child,”  said  he,  “how  is  your  finger?”  But 
he  never  said  another  word  about  mother. 

I’m  determined  not  to  think.  I’ve  been  looking  out 
of  the  window ; but  the  moonlight  is  so  chilly ! There 
are  little  pools  of  water  in  the  road,  and  the  winds  set 
them  to  shivering.  The  skeleton  trees  are  holding  up 
their  bare  arms  to  the  sky,  just  as  if  they  were  asking 
for  something.  Ah  me ! I keep  asking  for  something, 
all  day  and  all  night ; I ask  for  my  mother.  If  she 
were  here,  I know  I could  sleep.  When  I was  in  any 
trouble,  she  used  to  come  up  stairs  and  comfort  me. 
And 

“ I loved  her,  O,  I loved  her  so, 

Twas  joy  to  hear  her  tread.” 

I could  have  a good  cry,  only  I'hankful  has  almost 
broken  me  of  the  habit.  I do  think  it’s  partly  a habit. 
It’s  just  as  well  not  to  be  flimsy.  There,  I hear  Ben- 
jie  calling. 

May  1.  Last  night,  as  I was  singing  to  little 
brother,  who  was  very  restless,  there  was  a sound  of 
wheels,  and  presently  I heard  aunt  Filura’s  voice,  say- 
ing,— 

“Well,  Robert  is  most  an  excellent  driver,  or  I 
should  have  been  afraid  for  my  neck.” 

I danced  for  joy.  Bless  that  old  Robert.  He  was 
off  without  my  seeing  him.  In  came  aunt  Filura  like 
an  angel  of  mercy,  with  a striped  carpet-sack  in  one 
hand  and  an  umbrella  in  the  other,  and  never  so 
much  as  said.  How  do  you  do?  But  that  is  nothing 
strange  for  her.  She  is  always  so  earnest  about  some- 


190 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


thing  or  other,  that  she  forgets  her  manners.  This 
time  it  was  my  “ runround ; ” and  before  she  took  off 
her  bonnet,  she  had  brought  me  a cup  of  ashes  and 
water,  and  put  my  finger  in  soak.  Then  she  half  un- 
tied her  bonnet  strings,  and  with  her  bonnet  dangling 
down  her  back,  opened  the  carpet-bag,  and  took  out 
a vial  of  goose  oil  and  a feather,  and  made  a dash  at 
Benjie’s  nose,  as  if  it  were  a rusty  door-hinge.  How  it 
did  rest  me  and  soothe  me  to  see  her ! 

But  though  shre  calms  me  and  cahns  everybody,  she 
stirs  up  the  furniture  strangely.  Things  are  always 
rattling  or  tipping  over,  wherever  she  goes.  She  took 
the  stopper  out  of  tlie  camphor  bottle,  and  then  took 
oif  her  shawl,  and  whisked  it  against  the  bottle,  and 
tipped  over  the  camphor.  Our  carpet  will  smell  like 
sick  headache  for  a week.  She  said,  ‘‘  How  careless  of 
me ! ” and  soaked  it  up  with  her  pocket-handkerchief. 
Then  she  lighted  a lamp,  and  went  to  hunt  for  cob- 
webs, which,  I am  happy  to  say,  I don’t  keep  down 
stairs ; she  had  to  rummage  the  attic. 

She  came  down  with  her  cap  half  torn  off  her  head. 

“ I’ve  found  a great  wonder,”  said  she. 

I looked  up  to  see  what  it  could  be,  and  she  was 
holding  out  her  forefinger  for  my  admiration,  all 
swathed  in  a slate-colored  cobweb. 

See  here,  Mary  Ann ; it  takes  four  or  five  thousand 
strands  to  make  a fine  thread  like  this.  What  do  you 
think  of  spiders,  with  their  glue-bags  pricked  all 
through  with  little  holes  ? ” 

“ O,  auntie,”  said  I,  “ I am  afraid  I don’t  think  much 
about  them.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  cob- 
webs ? ” 


COBWEBS. 


191 


“ I’m  going  to  stop  your  runround.  Hold  out  your 
finger,  and  let  me  do  it  up  with  this  rag.” 

“ My  father  doesn’t  use  cobwebs.” 

“Your  father  doesn’t  know  everything,  Mary  Ann, 
not  by  a great  sight.  Where’s  the  vinegar  bottle  ? ” 

I felt  relieved  very  soon.  It  didn’t  seem  as  if  Benjie 
had  the  scarlet  fever,  now  aunt  Filura  had  oiled  his 
nose,  and  I didn’t  feel  half  so  anxious  about  mother 
after  I had  heard  her  say,  “ Spring  fever,  most  likely. 
We  won’t  borrow  trouble.”  I slept  sweetly  all  night. 
It  may  have  been  the  poultice,  and  then  again  it  may 
have  been  the  composing  draught  which  aunt  Filura 
gave  me,  and  which  was  easy  to  take,  being  merely  a 
dose  of  advice.  It  is  worth  saving  as  a recipe,  and  I 
will  copy  it  here. 

Aunt  TRcc’s  Composing  Draught, 

“ When  you  feel  wakeful,  Mary  Ann,  it  is  most  an 
excellent  plan  to  get  to  thinking  about  the  wonderful 
works  of  the  Creator.  You  will  be  astonished  to  find 
how  it  will  grow  upon  you.  You  can’t  exhaust  the 
subject.  Earth,  and  air,  and  water  are  full  of  his  glory. 
Follow  the  process  of  things  up  out  of  chaos ; you’re 
better  read  in  geology  than  I am.  Think  how  the 
same  One  who  did*  all  this  is  your  Father ; and  the 
first  you  know  you’ll  be  a speck  in  the  air,  floating  off 
to  sleep. 

“ I am  acquainted  with  a man  who  was  kept  awake 
by  a nervous  disease,  and  he  followed  this  rule  for 
years.  It  worked  like  a charm;  and  the  best  of  it 
was,  it  made  him  a real  good  Christian.” 


192 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER, 


Now  isn’t  this  a capital  opiate?  I don’t  believe  my 
father  could  prescribe  a better  one.  I took  it;  and 
after  a while  I had  a filmy  idea  that  my  head  was  a 
spindle,  and  I was  spinning  thread  out  of  my  hair.  So 
I may  say  I went  to  sleep  on  a spider. 

Dear  auntie  made  some  of  the  yellowest,  spottedest 
biscuits  to-night.  My  father  thought  they  were  mine, 
and  felt  called  upon  to  apologize. 

‘‘Filura,  you  must  excuse  Marian,”  said  he;  ‘‘she 
doesn’t  understand  cooking;  but  I must  say  I never 
knew  her  to  do  anything  quite  equal  to  this.” 

It  was  a great  joke ; but  fortunately  aunt  Filura  isn’t 
sensitive.  I shall  laugh  myself  to  sleep,  thinking  how 
my  father’s  face  looked  when  he  found  out  his  mistake. 


CHANGES. 


193 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


CHANGES. 

Suffering  is  my  gain.  I bow 
To  my  heavenly  Father’s  will, 
And  receive  it,  hushed  and  still. 
Suffering  is  my  worship  now.” 


Miss  Tottenham. 

December  20. 

[iss  Tottenham,  since  you 


heart  has  been  too  full 


for  words. 

Grandma  Hinsdale  was  buried  nine  years  ago  at  - 
Cardenas,  not  far  from  Havana ; and  there  they  placed 
the  poor  tired  body  which  mamma  left  behind  her 
when  she  passed  on  to  heaven.  A palm  tree  waves 
over  the  two  graves,  and  through  its  high  branches  I 
seem  to  hear  the  wind  sighing. 

Nine  years  ago  grandma  lay  down  there  to  rest; 
and  a year  ago  last  June  her  weary  daughter  followed 
her. 

Pauline  says  she  often  heard  mamma  whispering  in 
the  night,  “ Mother,  I am  so  tired ! ” She  never  will 
say  it  again.  She  has  gone  to  that  pitying  mother; 
but  the  breast  that  once  cradled  her  is  cold ; the  ears 
which  listened  to  every  sigh  are  forever  deaf. 


Jean  Paul. 


Not  that  I have  found 


13 


194 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


My  own,  my  dear  mamma!  She  tried  so  hard  to 
live ! She  hoped  through  everything.  But  it  came  to 
this  at  last.  Her  tired  feet  will  never  rove  again; 
they  have  reached  the  haven  that  has  awaited  them 
all  these  years  under  the  sighing  tree. 

Did  she  think  it  was  for  this  she  went  so  bravely  to 
Cuba,  and  ate  the  bread  of  sorrow  among  strangers  ? 
And  is  the  cold  home  by  the  sea  all  that  is  left  her 
— all? 

She  dreamed  of  warmth  and  sweet  kisses,  the  loving 
glow  of  dear  cheeks  pressed  close  to  her  own;  but 
all  these  dreams  froze  into  ice  upon  her  heart.  Noth- 
ing is  left  her  but  that  cold  home  by  the  sea. 

Dear  God,  is  that  all  ? She  trusted  thee ; she  hoped 
for  happy  days.  While  it  was  dark,  she  said  the  sun 
was  shining  somewhere;  when  the  cloud  passed,  she 
smiled.  Papa  says  there  was  always  a rainbow  in  her 
sky.  She  followed  it  to  the  end,  and  found  — a narrow 
home. 

Hush ! I did  not  mean  to  talk  like  this.  I thought  I 
could  trust  myself  to  say,  calmly  and  simply,  that 
mother  has  gone  to  heaven.  That  is  really  all  of  it. 
What  does  it  signify  about  the  other  things  ? She  is 
not  half  so  near  that  palm  tree  as  she  is  to  me. 

1 think  I was  a little  wild  at  first.  People  said  to 
me  it  was  wicked  to  wish  her  back.  I did  not  know 
what  they  meant.  How  could  I help  wishing  her 
back?  I said  they  who  hadn’t  lost  mothers  needn’t 
talk  to  me.  I wished  they  would  stay  away.  Judith 
was  all  the  girl  I would  see,  and  I could  not  have  en- 
dured the  sight  of  her  if  she  hadn’t  been  motherless. 

Not  wish  mamma  back!  She  did  not  suffer  very 


CHANGES. 


195 


much ; she  was  happy  here.  She  would  have  staid 
longer  if  she  only  might  have  had  leave.  She  was  in 
no  haste  to  go  to  heaven  away  from  us. 

I do  think  I was  a little  wild.  I hardly  knew  what 
time  of  year  it  was.  I didn’t  care  much  about  my 
father  and  Benjie.  I hardly  believed  in  God.  What 
should  I have  done  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  aunt  Filura  ? 
She  let  me  be  crazy;  she  never  interfered  with  me. 
“ I don’t  see,”  said  I,  “ how  God  expects  people  to  love 
him  when  he  treats  them  so.” 

•It  was  such  a relief  to  say  dreadful  things,  for  then 
I seemed  to  have  emptied  my  heart  of  them,  and  they 
did  not  come  back  again  to  stay.  I told  aunt  Filura 
it  was  like  casting  out  devils.  It  was  very  strange  she 
should  have  understood  it  so  well.  She  never  felt  re- 
bellious herself,  I am  sure ; I hope  I never  shall  again. 
It  is  like  a bit  of  sea-weed  fighting  against  the  ocean 
— so  foolish,  so  useless.  It  tore  me  all  in  pieces. 

“All  the  way  for  you,  my  child,”  said  aunt  Filura, 
“ is  to  put  your  arms  round  God’s  neck  and  call  him 
Father.” 

It  was  just  what  she  said  to  me  before,  when  we 
were  in  trouble  about  Keller’s  marriage. 

“ I have  tried  that  a great  many  times,  auntie,  and 
found  it  a comfort ; but  the  truth  is,  my  arms  won’t 
stay  there.” 

“Try  it  again  and  again,”  said  she.  And  I did.  I 
had  to  do  it.  It  was  the  only  way  I could  get  any 
peace.  I kept  saying  it  was  right,  whatever  He  had 
done ; and  by  and  by  I believed  it,  and  then  the  time 
came  when  I did  not  merely  believe  it  or  think  it ; I 
knew  it. 


196 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER, 


I am  not  always  willing  it  should  be  so.  I do  have 
such  times  of  wearying  to  see  my  mother!  Still  I 
know  just  what  to  do,  and  sometimes  it  drowns  my 
grief,  and  once  in  a while  I go  to  sleep  with  that  beau- 
tiful feeling  at  my  heart  which  I tried  once  to  tell  you 
about  — a feeling  as  if  mother  had  been  there,  and  left 
flowers  in  the  room.  You  did  not  understand  what  I 
meant,  but  Tennyson  does.  These  are  the  flowers 
she  leaves : — 


“ Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams.” 

Poor  papa  has  grown  old  and  gray.  I have  made  a 
solemn  promise  to  my  own  soul  never  to  leave  him.  I 
don’t  see  how  Pauline  could  have  gone  away  when  the 
liouse  was  so  desolate,  and  married  anybody,  even  Mr. 
Loring;  but  papa  never  blamed  her.  She  is  just  as 
kind  as  can  be  about  advising  and  overseeing,  for  she 
lives  not  very  far  away,  in  a neat  cottage  on  the 
Racket  Hill. 

I have  really  taken  my  place  now  at  the  head  of  the 
household.  I thought  that  night  of  the  freshet  I was 
standing  “ where  the  brook  and  river  meet ; ” and  so  I 
was.  Not  that  I wished  it.  I would  much  rather  be 
a little  girl,  and  have  a careless  good  time ; but  when 
‘‘Fate  knocks  at  the  door,”  what  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it?  I wonder  now  at  the  longing  I used  to 
have,  at  thirteen  and  fourteen,  to  get  into  long  dresses ! 
If  little  girls  only  knew  how  long  dresses  feel,  they 
wouldn’t  be  in  such  a hurry. 

Papa  got  so  discouraged  going  after  girls,  that  I 
thought  it  would  save  a great  deal  of  heart-burning  to 


CHANGES. 


197 


give  up  the  matter  entirely,  more  especially  since  I 
had  learned  to  make  good  bread.  Mrs.  Nason  comes 
to  wash  and  iron,  and  do  the  scrubbing,  and  I verily 
believe  it  is  more  comfortable  to  get  through  the  rest 
of  the  work  myself,  and  have  it  done  just  as  I know 
papa  likes  it.  If  we  had  a girl,  she  would  probably  be 
older  than  I,  and  think  she  knew  a great  deal  more ; 
and  really.  Miss  Tottenham,  I don’t  care  about  being 
looked  down  upon. 

Then  again  I must  have  something  in  my  mind  to 
grind  except  my  own  thoughts : if  the  hopper  was 
empty,  I should  whirl  round  distracted. 

Keller  is  at  home  now,  preparing  to  go  to  Wiscon- 
sin, into  a coal  mine.  It  is  one  of  the  disappointments 
of  my  father’s  life  that  that  boy  doesn’t  “ take  to  learn- 
ing;” but  it  was  of  no- use  urging  him  to  go  to  college; 
his  face  was  set  against  it.  I know  how  my  father  felt 
when  he  was  obliged  to  give  up  his  cherished  plan.  I 
know  a great  many  things  my  father  feels,  just  by  in- 
tuition. It  is  because  I have  the  same  blood  in  my 
own  veins,  perhaps.  “High-strung,  like  all  the  Pres- 
cotts,”  says  aunt  Filura. 

Keller  is  as  good  and  kind  as  possible,  and  loves  me 
dearly,  which  is  a new  freak  of  his.  I hope  it  will  last. 
Two  years  ago  he  thought  I was  very  sarcastic ; and 
so  I was,  and  am  still.  Cutting  speeches  are  always 
coming  to  the  end  of  my  tongue,  and  when  I do  keep 
them  back  I must  say  I think  I deserve  credit. 

Benjie  is  my  darling.  He  shed  streams  of  weak 
little  tears  when  mother  died ; but  how  much  did  he 
comprehend?  “Mamie”  means  almost  the  same  as 
“Mamma”  with  him,  and  the  dear  child  never  will 


198 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


know  what  he  has  lost.  When  I see  how  he  clings  to 
me,  it  makes  me  feel  as  old  as  the  hills,  and  very  self- 
important  too. 

I am  surprised  that  it  should  be  so ; but  as  true  as 
you  live.  Miss  Tottenham,  I am  as  happy  as  a bird.  I 
miss  mamma  more  and  more ; but  except  at  times,  I 
enjoy  life  as  well  as  ever.  Perhaps  it  is  partly  because 
I know  I am  needed.  What  would  my  poor  father  do 
without  me?  I am  so  proud,  so  delighted  to  hear  him 
say,  “Well,  Miss  Sunbeam,  all  the  light  of  this  house 
comes  from  that  yellow  head  of  yours.” 

I’m  glad  enough  my  head  is  yellow ; it  seems  as  if 
he  warms  his  hands  when  he  puts  them  on  my  hair. 

Robert  is  studying  medicine  with  my  father,  and 
will  attend  his  second  course  of  lectures  this  winter. 
I suppose  there  is  no  doubt  about  him;  he  will 
rise  in  the  world.  But  as  for  Keller,  one  can’t  be 
so  sure.  Robert  thinks  he  is  developing  some  busi- 
ness talent.  I hope  so.  Who  knows  but  we  may  all 
ride  in  a gold  coach  yet  ? 

I have  said  nothing  about  Judith,  because  I really 
don’t  understand  what  is  the  matter  with  her,  though 
I fancy  it  is  something  more  than  a low  state  of  the 
system.  She  sits  for  half  an  hour  sometimes,  looking 
at  vacancy.  If  she  is  unhappy,  I should  think  she 
might  confide  in  me ; but  I ask  no  questions. 

O,  I must  tell  you  what  Thankful  said  the  first  time 
she  visited  us,  after  Pauline  came  home  from  Cuba. 
She  had  brought  her  knitting,  and  was  to  stay  to  tea. 

“ I heard,  in  the  first  place,  it  was  you  that  was  dead, 
Pauline,  and  I supposed  it  was  so  for  as  much  as  a 


CHANGES, 


199 


week ; but  when  I found  it  was  your  mother,  I thought 
I should  have  fainted  away.” 

Pauline’s  tears  were  falling  while  Thankful  spoke, 
but  at  the  same  time  she  smiled  a little.  Who  could 
help  it  at  such  a singular  remark  ? 

But  it  was  not  like  the  speeches  Miss  O’J^eil  makes 
out  of  that  cold  heart  and  silly  brain  of  hers.  She  is 
constantly  saying  things  which  wound  me,  for  there  is 
an  edge  of  truth  in  them. 

‘‘Well,  Miriam,  your  poor  mother  was  buried  in  the 
Island  of  Havana.  You  see  I was  right.  I told  you 
her  death  might  be  momentous.  I said  so  the  night 
you  had  the  party,  and  Mr.  Lovell  gave  you  that 
rose.” 

“Yes,  I remember.  Miss  O’iTeil.  Please  don’t  speak 
of  it.” 

“Yes,  Miriam,  I should  think  if  you  had  a squeam 
of  conscience,  you  loould  feel  bad  to  think  how  you 
tired  out  your  mother  in  her  last  days  having  com- 
pany. And  not  to  wear  a scrap  of  mourning  for  her 
either!  It’s  the  talk  of  the  town.  If  Y have  my  senses 
when  I am  buried,  I hope  nobody’ll  follow  me  to  my 
grave  with  such  a sinful  bonnet.  Blue  ribbon  and 
flowers ! And  that  dear  Mrs.  Linscott  gone  to  heaven, 
if  ever  anybody  went  from  this  town.” 

I am  getting  to  hate  her.  It  frightens  me.  The 
more  I try  to  shake  off  this  feeling,  the  more  it  haunts 
me.  As  my  father  and  I sat  playing  backgammon  the 
other  night,  I asked  him  if  it  was  possible  to  learn  to 
love  a perfectly  disagreeable  j>erson. 

“Yes,  after  a fashion.” 


200 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


“ How?” 

“ Do  the  perfectly  disagreeable  person  a kindness.” 

Then  he  wanted  to  know  who  it  was.  As  if  any- 
body alive  could  be  perfectly  disagreeable  except 
Norah  O’Neil. 

‘‘I’ll  make  her  a present,”  said  I;  “how  will  that 
do?” 

“Humph!  I’ll  tell  you  how  it  will  do.  She  will 
take  it  as  she  takes  the  rent  of  her  house  — in  high 
dudgeon.  She  says  I ought  to  give  her  the  deed 
of  the  house  outright.  If  I can’t  do  more  than  let 
her  have  a life-lease,  I don’t  act  the  part  of  a Chris- 
tian, and  I shouldn’t  be  thought  anything  of  at  Ma- 
chias  1 ” 

“Well,  papa,  you  may  laugh;  but  I think  it’s 
enough  to  exasperate  a saint.  The  time  is  past 
when  these  things  amuse  me ; they  just  stir  up  my 
wrath.” 

“Tut,  tut,”  said  my  father.  “Don’t  expect  figs  to 
grow  on  thistles.  But  if  you  are  getting  into  this  state 
of  mind,  there  must  be  something  done  about  it.  I 
can’t  allow  my  daughter  to  waste  her  animosity  on  a 
poor,  witless  creature  like  that.  If  you  haven’t  grasp 
of  mind  enough,  Marian,  to  find  room  for  Miss  O’Neil, 
I strongly  advise  your  befriending  her  in  some  way  for 
the  good  effect  it  may  have  on  yourself.  Never  mind 
how  she  takes  it.  Do  something  that  will  really  help 
her,  and  let  her  scold  as  she  will.” 

I felt  rebuked.  I do  suppose  a person  of  my  age 
ought  to  have  more  charity  and  forbearance. 

Well,  I talked  with  the  girls,  and  we,  being  Miss 


CHANGES. 


201 


O’Neil’s  cordial  haters,  all  decided  that  we  would 
try  the  plan  of  making  her  a donation  party,  just  to 
see  if  we  couldn’t  warm  our  hearts  towards  the  poor 
old  thing. 

She  is  now  visiting  in  her  paradise  among  the 
Wixes.  When  she  returns  we  are  to  give  her  a 
Christmas  party,  and  I will  tell  you  how  it  turns  out. 


202 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  SYMPOSIUM. 

S O’NEIL  had  just  returned  from  her 
paradise  among  the  Wixes,”  and  was  try- 
ig  to  burn  a stick  of  green  wood  in  her 
air-tight  stove. 

“ I have  such  good  friends  in  the  Wix  neighbor- 
hood ! ” mused  she,  striking  another  match.  ‘‘I  always 
knew  that.  I start  to  walk  up  there,  and  make  visits 
along  on  the  way ; and  no  matter  how  bad  the  travel- 
ling is,  or  how  busy  they  are.  I’ve  noticed  that  some 
of  them  are  always  ready  to  bring  me  home.” 

This  proof  of  the  Wix  friendship  was  so  convincing, 
and  so  consoling,  that  the  ancient  dame  dwelt  upon  it 
all  the  while  the  bit  of  newspaper  was  taking  fire,  even 
till  the  kindlings  began  to  blaze  and  besiege  the  green 
wood. 

‘‘  Yes,  they  are  good  friends  of  mine,  up  there.  Ich- 
abod  Wix  had  his  hands  more  than  full,  doing  up  gar- 
den seeds ; but  he  said,  ‘ he  could  always  spare  time 
and  horses  to  oblige  Miss  O’Neil.’  I sometimes  wish  I 
lived  among  them,  they  all  like  me  so  well.  Dear 
knows,  I get  very  little  attention  here  in  the  village. 
In  Machias,  now,  before  that  wicked  Mr.  McGrath 
cheated  me  out  of  my  property,  I was  looked  upon  as 


THE  SYMPOSIUM. 


203 


a lady.  But  time  relapses  on,  and  brings  great  changes. 
Quinnebasset  isn’t  like  Machias ; the  people  are  very 
different.  Here  is  Dr.  Linscott,  one  of  the  first  men  in 
town,  taking  a mean  advantage  of  my  slender  circum- 
stances, and  renting  me  this  house  full  of  rats.  It 
sounds  very  generous  if  you  don’t  hear  the  wind  shake 
the  old  blinds.  Only  a life-lease,  either.  If  I should 
die  I couldn’t  will  away  a single  board  in  the  floor.  I 
have  nothing  to  will  away  to  anybody  — I,  that  had  a 
fortune  once  of  my  own  ! An  O’Neil,  too  ! ” 

With  the  last  words  the  poor  soul  shut  the  stove 
door  with  an  air  which  was  nothing  less  than  regal,  and 
looked  witheringly  around  the  plain  but  decent  apart- 
ment, at  the  school  benches  set  in  straight  rows  against 
the  walls,  at  the  vase  of  dried  grasses  on  the  mantel 
beside  the  photograph  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Hinsdale, 
and  at  the  red  and  green  carpet  on  the  floor,  presented 
last  spring  by  some  of  the  “first  ladies”  of  the  parish. 

“ Dr.  Linscott  wouldn’t  be  satisfied  with  such  a 
house  himself,  and  an  air-tight  stove  is  very  unhealthy. 
Ah,  well,”  murmured  she,  falling  back  upon  her  favorite 
text,  which  she  must  have  thought  very  elastic,  for  it 
fitted  any  occasion.  “Do  good  in  thy  good  pleasure 
unto  Zion ; build  thou  the  walls  of  Jerusalem.” 

That  seemed  to  settle  the  matter  of  the  house  and 
furniture ; and  the  next  grievance  which  Miss  O’Neil 
took  up  with  her  basket  of  shavings  was  the  wind. 

“ What  a town  this  is  for  gales  ! I don’t  remember 
that  we  ever  had  anything  like  it  in  Machias.  There, 
the  neurology  is  flashing  into  my  jaw  again.  I must 
tie  it  up  before  it  spreads.’ 

And  festooning  her  head  with  a red  bandanna.  Miss 


204 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


O’Neil  seated  herself  permanently,  at  last,  in  her  stuffed 
chintz  rocker,  known  among  the  young  people  as  her 
“ growlery.” 

‘‘  It  is  lonesome,  when  the  wind  blows,  to  sit  and 
soliloquize  all  alone  to  yourself.  I should  think  some 
of  the  neighbors  might  come  in.  ^ They  must  have  seen 
me  riding  by  with  Ichabod  Wix ; but  nobody  cares 
whether  I’ve  got  home  or  not.  If  I hadn’t  been 
cheated  out  of  my  property ! Ah,  well ! The  wind 
bloweth,  and  it  listeth,  and  as  the  tree  falleth,  so  it 
shall  lie.” 

Thes^  little  quotations  from  Scripture,  in  which  Miss 
O’Neil  indulged  to  such  an  extent,  were  usually  very 
wide  of  the  mark  ; still  they  had  come  to  take  the  place 
in  her  mind  of  something  like  ejaculatory  prayers  ; and 
who  shall  say  that,  as  such,  they  were  altogether  worth- 
less and  void  of  meaning  ? 

‘‘  Christmas  is  coming,  and  nobody  has  asked  me  to 
dinner.  \ wonder  if  I hadn’t  better  go  to  Dr.  Lin- 
scott’s : Miriam  is  getting  to  be  a very  nice  cook  — 
only  she  is  not  agreeable  in  her  manners.  I know  Mrs. 
Ichabod  meant  for  me  to  stay  there,  if  she  hadn’t  been 
so  mortified  about  burning  the  plum  cake.  I told  her 
I shouldn’t  mind  that,  if  the  turkey  turned  out  well ; 
and  then  I said  all  that  was  proper  about  being  fond 
of  mince  pies,  and  thinking  everything  of  her  family ; 
but  she  was  so  polite  that  she  got  all  of  a flurry  for  fear 
Ichabod  wouldn’t  harness  as  soon  as  I was  ready  for 
him.  She  thought  I should  feel  dreadfully  to  be  caught 
there  in  a storm,  though  I told  her  over  and  over  again 
I should  admire  to  stay  all  winter.  She  thinks  they 
couldn’t  do  without  me  here  in  the  village ; but  times 


THE  SYMPOSIUM. 


205 


have  changed.  I used  to  be  invited  to  the  first  houses 
to  eat  my  Christmas ; but  here  I am  now ; nobody 
comes  near  me  to  see  if  I’m  dead  or  alive.” 

There  was  a knock  at  the  door.  Miss  O’Neit  settled 
her  cap  and  shook  out  her  dress.  “A  caller,  as  true  as 
I live.  I wish  people  knew  when  to  stay  away. ' I 
should  have  caught  a nap  in  about  a minute ; b,ut 
there’s  no  such  thing  as  having  your  house  to  yourself 
in  Quinnebasset.” 

Miss  O’Neil  went  to  the  door  with  her  sourest  as- 
pect. 

“ Good  evening,  Mary  Smith.  I won’t  call  you 
Marie,  for  there  isn’t  a drop  of  French  blood  in  your 
veins.  Walk  in,  child.” 

Marie  entered  very  demurely,  and  placed  a little  box 
on  the  table. 

“ I wish  you  a Merry  Christmas,  Miss  O’Neil.”  ^ 
Wm!  — O yes,  thank  you,  dear,”  faltered  the  old 
lady,  with  her  eyes^on  the  box. 

“ I wanted  to  make  my  old  teacher  a little  present,” 
said  Marie,  opening  the  box,  “ and  I hope  you’ll  please 
accept  this  cap.” 

“Very  much  obliged  to  you,  you  little  darling,”  said 
Miss  O’Neil,  extending  her  hand,  doubtfully.  “ People 
don’t  think  to  give  me  presents  as  they  used  to,  before 
I lost  my  property.  I had  present's  enough  then,  when 
I didn’t  need  them.  But  you  always  were  a sweet 
child.  Blue ! ” exclaimed  she,  picking  at  the  rosette. 
“ If  there’s  a color  I despise,  it’s  blue ; but  of  course 
you  didn’t  know  that,  and  I’m  just  as  much  obliged  to 
you^ 

“ Green  ! ’’  interposed  Marie ; “ green  ! ” 


206 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


“ Well,  it  must  be  a very  blue  green,  then,”  said  Miss 
O’Neil,  putting  on  the  cap  over  her  old  one  and  the 
red  bandanna,  and  surveying  the  effect  in  the  glass. 

“ Why,  it’s  too  small  in  the  crown,  and  don’t  come 
far  enough  forward,  by  two  inches,  to  meet  my  front 
hair.” 

“ Perhaps,”  said  Marie,  biting  her  lip,  ‘‘  if  you  would 
take  off  that  bandage  you  might  judge  better.  Miss 
O’Neil.” 

There  was  another  knock,  and  Judith  Willard  en- 
tered, a pink  glow  from  the  sharp  air  relieving  the 
moonlight  paleness  of  her  face. 

“ A Merry  Christmas,  Miss  O’Neil,”  said  she,  putting 
a bandbox  on  one  of  the  school  benches. 

“Take  a chair,  dear,”  said  the  old  lady,  with  an  un- 
certain smile.  “If  you’d  wished  me  Merry  Christmas 
twenty-five  years  ago,  I might  have  got  it,  for  I hadn’t 
been  cheated  out  of  my  property  then.” 

“Miss  O’Neil,” said  Judith, timidly, “ I couldn’t  think 
what  to  give  you;  but  here  is  a bonnet  I hope  you’ll 
like.” 

“You  dear  child,  you  learned  behavior  at  my  school, 
and  I’m  sure  I thank  you  kindly.  This  is  quite  unex- 
pected.” 

“ Marian  and  I made  it  together.” 

Miss  O’Neil  turned  the  bonnet  round  and  round  on 
her  hand. 

“ Well,  I don’t  think  any  better  of  it  for  Miriam 
Linscott’s  having  a hand  in  it ; but  I guess  I’ll  try 
it  on.” 

Which  she  did,  regardless  of  her  muffled  jaws  and 
double  supply  of  caps. 


THE  SYMPOSIUM. 


207 


“ Why,  what  a dowdy-looking  thing ! Excuse  me, 
Judy ; I know  Miriam  was  the  one  to  blame.  She 
always  goes  in  front  of  the  rear.” 

“But,  Miss  O’Neil  — ” 

“When  I lived  at  Machias,  girls,  people  used  to 
come  to  church  from  a distance  just  to  see  me,  there 
was  so  much  said  about  my  beauty.  But  who  would 
think  it  now,  with  this  bunch  of  furbelows  stuck  on  the 
back  of  my  head  ? ” 

The  question  would  not  admit  of  an  answer,  and  the 
girls  turned  away  to  hide  their  laughing  faces. 

“ But,  Miss  O’Neil,”  entreated  Judith,  “ if  you’ll  only 
take  off  that  bandage,  and  one  of  your  caps.” 

“ Indeed,  I shall  do  no  such  thing,”  returned  the  lady, 
with  spirit.  “ When  I have  the  neurology  in  my  face 
I must  have  room  to  tie  it  up.” 

But  the  bonnet  was  very  tasteful,  and  it  was  evident 
that  Miss  O’Neil  liked  it,  for  she  smiled  admiringly, 
and  looked  very  well  pleased  as  she  carried  it  off  to 
her  bedroom. 

There  was  another  knock.  This  time  it  was  Osca- 
foria,  with  a handsome  woollen  shawl  of  warm,  brown 
tints,  nicely  shaded. 

“ Please  accept,  with  the  compliments  of  the  season,” 
said  Miss  Ossie,  in  her  most  graceful  manner. 

“ Why,  really,  what  surprises  ! ” cried  Miss  O’Neil, 
delighted,  till  she  remembered  that  Mr.  Jones  was  the 
richest  man  in  town,  and  his  daughter  might  have  done 
more. 

“ A shawl  is  better  than  nothing,  and  thank  you 
kindly,  dear.  I always  thought  so  much  of  your  family ! 
To  be  sure,  I had  a velvet  cloak  once ; but  that  was 


208 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


before  I lost  my  property.  I never  expect  another  vel- 
vet, .or  any  kind  of  a cloak,  for  that  matter.” 

“I  am  so  sorry.  Miss  O’Neil!”  said  Oscaforia,  cha- 
grined. “If  you  don’t  like  the  shawl,  pray  don’t  feel 
obliged  to  keep  it.” 

“Why,  Ossie,  what  did  you  expect?”  said  Marie,  as 
Miss  O’Neil,  with  the  shawl  still  on  her  shoulders,  an- 
swered another  knock  at  the  door.  “You’ve  had  no 
worse  rebuff  than  Judith  and  I.  The  old  soul  is  in 
raptures,  but  you  know  it’s  part  of  her  religion  to  mak^ 
people  uncomfortable.” 

There  was  a gay  laugh,  and  Marian  tripped  into  the 
room,  bright  and  breezy.  At  seventeen  people  were 
beginning  to  call  her  beautiful.  This  was  not  and 
never  would  be  strictly  true ; but  there  was  a sparkle 
and  a freshness  in  her  face  which  charmed  away  your 
criticism.  Her  nose  might  be  a trifle  large,  but  you 
would  be  willing  to  have  one  larger  still  if  it  only 
looked  as  sensible  as  hers.  She  might  have,  here  and 
there,  a few  stray  freckles  ; but  they  paled  in  the  glory 
of  her  golden  hair,  till  they  seemed  as  faint  as  the  stars 
in  the  Milky  Way.  She  had  grown  fast  within  the 
last  few  years,  and,  being  straight  and  well  propor- 
tioned, looked  taller  than  Judith,  who  was  half  a head 
above  her,  but  carried  herself  as  ill  as  ever. 

“A  Merry  Christmas,  and  many  happy  returns!” 
said  Marian,  offering  to  embrace  Miss  O’Neil,  who  drew 
back  in  disdain. 

“ O,  but  won’t  you  let  me  kiss  you  for  Christmas?” 
pleaded  Marian,  roguishly,  which  of  course  called  forth 
the  little  frozen  speech  the  girls  had  heard  so  many 
times. 


.i;’ 

J,-;-  ■ ! • 


• ' k 


• 


I WAS  BROUGHT  UP  NEVER  TO  KISS.”  Page  209. 


THE  SYMPOSIUM. 


209 


“ I was  brought  up  never  to  kiss.” 

But  Marian  seized  her  playfully  by  the  shoulders, 
and  pecked  her  withered  cheek  rapidly  half  a dozen 
times.  ; / 

Tl;^ere  now,  I’ve  kissed  you  for  Chrisjl^mas,  and 
New,)fe^r’s,  and  Fourth  of  July,  and  Thanksgiving 
Dayfi^oo ; and  I’d  like  to  see  you  help  yourself;  Miss 
Norah  O’Neil.” 

“ O,  you  foolish  Galathian,”  returned  the  descendant 
of  the  O’Neils,  actually  smiling.  “Your  manners  are 
so  uncultivated,  Miriam ! You’ve  crushed  my  beau- 
tiful new  cap.” 

“ She  calls  the  cap  beautiful.  I told  you  so,”  said 
Marie  aside  to  Oscaforia. 

“ See  how  some  of  my  old  scholars  have  remembered 
me,  Miriam.  Don’t  you  admire  my  shawl?  You 
would  if  you  had  good  taste.” 

“Certainly  I admire  it;  and  pray  keep  it  on.  Beg 
pardon.  Miss  O’Neil,  but  the  room  is  rather  chilly,  and 
as  we  came  to  spend  the  evening,  mayn’t  I take  the 
liberty  to  make  the  fire  burn  better  ? ” 

The  hostess  drew  herself  up  in  stately  surprise ; but 
before  she  had  time  to  remonstrate  Marian  had  run  out 
to  the  shed  and  returned  with  a basket  of  chij)s  and  an 
armful  of  wood. 

“You  never  could  keep  your  place  when  you  were 
a little  child  and  went  to  my  school,  and  you  haven’t 
improved  a grain  since,”  said  Miss  O’Neil,  frigidly. 

“ O,  you  like  to  be  hospitable,  you  know  you  do,” 
laughed  Marian  ; “ it’s  an  Irish  trait.” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  lady,  a little  mollified,  “ I was  origi- 
nally born  in  Ireland,  and  I’m  jDroud  to  have  it  known.” 
14 


210 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


‘‘  And  it  is  known.  No  one  who  has  ever  seen  you 
could  doubt  where  you  were  originally  born,”  returned 
Marian,  with  a sly  glance  at  the  girls.  But  now  will 
you  please  step  into  the  bedroom  and  try  on  a wrapper 
you  will  find  hanging  up  in  your  closet?  ” 

“ What ! You  too  ? I didn’t  expect  you’d  brought 
a thing,”  said  Miss  O’Neil,  evidently  delighted. 

‘‘Quick!  now’s  our  time,  girls,”  cried.  Marian,  as 
Miss  O’Neil  lighted  a small  lamp,  and  vanished  into 
the  bedroom. 

Judith  and  Marie  Smith  hastened  to  the  front  door, 
and  brought  in  three  large  baskets,  which  had  been 
sitting  outside  in  the  snow.  Oscaforia  opened  the 
leaves  of  the  table,  and  covered  it  with  a fine  white 
cloth. 

“ There,”  said  she,  setting  a large  frosted  cake  in  the 
middle,  “behold  a peace-oflTering  ! Now  I hope  to  be 
forgiven  for  the  shawl.” 

“ And  here  is  some  lemonade,”  said  Marie,  producing 
a pitcher  and  glasses.  “ I trust  it’s  sour  enough  to  give 
satisfaction.” 

“ Don’t  get  me  to  laughing,”  said  Judith,  overturning 
a fruit-dish  full  of  confectionery.  “ I brought  this  to 
offset  your  lemonade.” 

Marian,  who  had  at  last  succeeded  in  building  a lusty 
fire,  stole  out  to  the  magic  door-stone,  and  returned 
with  a platter  of  cold  turkey  and  a plate  of  biscuits. 

“ She’ll  say,  ‘ You  foolish  Galathian,  why  didn’t  you 
bring  a goose?’”  whispered  Marian.  “Now  let’s 
light  our  four  sperm  candles.  Quite  an  illumination. 
And  the  room  is  thawing  out  — don’t  you  feel  the 
diflference,  since  the  fire  began  to  burn?” 


THE  SYMPOSIUM. 


211 


“ Yes,  and  Miss  O’Neil’s  poor  old  heart  is  thawing 
out  too,”  said  Marie,  with  a great  gush  of  pity,  such  as 
she  had  never  felt  for  her  despised  ex-teacher  till  she 
made  her  the  cap. 

“ I hadn’t  the  least  idea  she’d  give  us  time  to  set  the 
table,”  said  Judith. 

At  that  moment  the  bedroom  door  opened,  and  Miss 
O’Neil  reappeared,  muttering  something  about  the 
bother  she  had  had  with  those  “ mincing  button-holes.” 
It  was  all  the  fault  she  could  possibly  find  with  the 
dark-green  merino  wrapper,  bordered  with  silk  of  the 
same  shade  ; but,  as  the  girls  said,  “ she  must  find  fault 
or  die.” 

What  a perfect  fit ! ” they  all  exclaimed. 

Marian  had  taken  unwearied  pains  in  patterning  after 
a gown  abstracted  from  Miss  O’Neil’s  wardrobe,  and 
her  success  was  complete,  except  the  one  mincing  but- 
ton-hole. The  fastidious  old  lady,  whose  taste  in  dress 
was  good,  could  not  help  being  satisfied,  and  came  for- 
ward now,  with  a stately  tread  and  a smiling  face,  con- 
scious of  looking  her  best  in  her  “ falsest  black  front,” 
and  very  sure  she  deserved  praise  for  condescending  to 
take  off  the  cherished  bandanna  and  put  on  the  janty 
new  cap. 

“ O,  girls,  isn’t  she  a picture  ? She  was  a beauty 
once,  I know  she  was,”  said  Marie,  clasping  her  hands. 

“ Turn  away  mine  eyes  from  beholding  vanity,”  re- 
sponded Miss  O’Neil,  gazing  in  the  looking-glass  with 
intense  delight.  “ I always  told  you  I was  called  a 
beauty  in  my  day ; but  the  young  men  said  I had  the 
heart  of  a stone.  , Why,  girls,  what  have  you  been 
doing?” 


212 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


“We  came  without  our  suppers,”  said  Marian,  in  a 
tone  of  apology,  “ and  we  are  so  hungry  ! Hope  you’ll 
excuse  us.  Please  take  a chair,  ma’am,  and  wait  upon 
the  table.” 

« Why,  really,  indeed  now,”  said  the  astonished  lady, 
sweeping  a courtesy,  which  had  been  part  of  her  stock 
of  manners  in  old  times,  and  was  very  graceful  still. 

“ Indeed  now,  this  is  quite  unexpected.  It  carries  me 
back,  young  ladies,  to  the  time  when  my  father  used  to 
give  parties,  before  we  lost  our  — Hark ! What’s  that  ? ” 

There  was  a loud  knocking,  accompanied  by  shrill 
halloos.  As  Miss  O’Neil  went  to  the  door,  she  saw 
Robert  Willard,  Keller  Prescott,  Pitkin  Jones,  Silas 
Hackett,  and  the  new  school  teacher,  standing  in  the 
moonlight  before  two  ox-sleds. 

« We’ve  brought  you  some  wood  — where  shall  we  ' 
put  it?” 

Miss  O’Neil’s  nerves  had  been  sadly  tried  this  even- 
ing, and  she  did  not  know  whether  to  scold  the  young 
men  for  the  fright  they  had  given  her,  or  to  embrace 
them  for  gratitude. 

“ O,  my  patience ! ” cried  she  ; “ you  are  so  kind ! 
but  you’ve  thrown  me  into  a terrible  flutter.  I should 
think  this  was  a pretty  time  of  night  to  bring  a load  of 
wood.  You’d  better  go  right  off,  — and  heave  it  into 
the  shed,  gentlemen.” 

But  Miss  O’Neil  bethought  herself,  presently,  that 
this  was  not  a very  gracious  way  to  receive  favors. 
True,  the  people  of  Machias  would  never  have  startled 
alone  woman  with  oxen  at  such  an  unseasonable  hour; 
still,  her  shed  was  nearly  empty,  and  the  wood  most 
acceptable. 


THE  SYMPOSIUM. 


213 


“ 0,  you  lovely  creatures  ! ” exclaimed  she,  when  the 
last  stick  was  disposed  of,  and  the  young  men  entered 
the  house  to  claim  their  places  at  the  supper  table, 
which  was  waiting  for  them.  Thank  you  kindly  for 
what  you’ve  done,  and  may  you  be  blessed  in  basket 
and  in  store.  I see  it  has  been  sawed  and  split ; is  it 
all  stove  length  ? Now  let  us  say  grace.” 

The  transition  was  so  abrupt  from  business  to  de- 
votion, that  the  strange  guest,  Mr.  Fordyce  Bailey, 
found  it  hard  to  preserve  his  gravity  daring  the  short 
blessing  which  the  hostess  asked,  with  her  black-mitted 
hands  reverently  folded. 

“ Gentlemen,  I’ve  made  you  some  tea,”  said  she,  open- 
ing her  eyes,  and  smiling  benignly.  “ The  girls  would 
never  have  thought  of  it ; but  tea  is  very  refreshing. 
And  here  is  some  cream  Mrs.  Ichabod  Wix  gave  me, 
one  of  my  best  friends.  Help  yourselves,  do.  I don’t 
know  when  we  shall  all  eat  together  again ; and  be- 
sides, I’m  afraid  it  won’t  keep.” 

There  was  a sudden  contortion  of  Fordyce  Bailey’s 
face,  which  came  near  being  the  ruin  of  the  whole 
party.  He  had  heard  that  Miss  O’Neil  was  bird-witted, 
and  a town-curiosity,  but  had  not  come  prepared  for 
such  a mixture  of  graceful  hospitality  and  child-like 
simplicity. 

It  was  a royal  Christmas  evening  for  the  poor  old 
soul.  Smiles  wreathed  her  witliered  lips,  roses  glowed 
in  her  sallow  cheeks,  the  light  of  other  days  shone  in 
her  old  eyes,  making  it  possible  to  believe  the  tradition 
that  she  had  once  been  the  handsomest  young  lady  in 
the  town  of  Machias. 

‘‘Yes,  I see  a little  flicker  of  beauty  there,”  thought 


214 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


Marian.  “ Pity  we  have  to  grow  old  and  shrivel  up 
like  dried  apples.  It  must  be  a cross.  What  if  one 
of  us  four  girls  should  be  left  all  alone  in  the  world, 
and  didn’t  even  love  cats?  Mightn’t  we  turn  into 
vinegar  as  well  as  she  ? Always  provided  we  hadn’t 
sense  enough  to  try  to  keep  sweet.” 

It  was  a charitable  question,  and  a wise  one ; but 
blithe  young  Marian  had  never  asked  it  before,  and 
would  not  have  asked  it  now,  if  her  sympathies  had 
not  broadened  and  deepened  in  the  very  act  of  fitting 
that  troublesome  merino  wrapper.  Never  in  her  life 
before  had  she  felt  such  tenderness  for  that  “perfectly 
disagreeable  person,”  Miss  Norah  O’Neil. 

“ They  say  the  heart  must  have  something  to  cherish, 
or  ‘in  itself  to  ashes  burn.’  I see  it  all,  now,”  thought 
she,  with  a gentle  smile  of  pity,  as  the  lady  of  the  house 
singled  her  out,  with  her  usual  animosity,  and  paraded 
her  faults  before  the  company.  “ Let  her  talk ; why 
should  I cave  ? ” 

“ The  most  ungain  scholar  I ever  had  at  my  school, 
Miriam  was  always  full  of  frwolty.,  making  mischief 
and  poetry.  She  tried  to  break  oflT  the  match  between 
her  sister,  only  I went  myself  and  joined  it  on  again.” 
Marian  blushed  painfully,  and  felt  as  if  the  new 
teacher  must  be  looking  at  her  with  amazement.  That 
foolish  poem!  Should  she  ever  outgrow  the  mortifica- 
tion and  disgrace  of  it  ? Certainly  not  while  Miss 
'O’Neil  lived  to  keep  it  before  the  public. 

“ The  plaguy  old  parrot,  I’ll  stop  her  tongue,”  said 
Keller,  in  a low  voice,  to  Marian,  who  returned  him  a 


THE  SYMPOSIUM, 


215 


grateful  look.  The  time  had  come  when  she  saw  no 
reason  to  envy  Judith  the  brother-love  which  had  once 
seemed  to  be  left  out  of  her  own  lot.  Keller  was  now 
her  devoted  champion  and  friend,  and  had  been  ever 
since  she  appeared  to  him  that  day  in  the  attic,  like  a 
good  fairy  with  a golden  halo  round  her  head,  and 
dropped  loving  words,  like  balm,  into  his  sore  heart. 
He  came  to  her  rescue  now,  though  the  way  he  did  it 
may  be  open  to  objections.  It  was  by  setting  Miss 
O’Keil  to  talk  of  her  lovers,  an  imaginary  host,  which 
she  marshalled  forth  occasionally  to  kneel  at  her  shrine, 
and  bewail  her  ‘‘  heart  of  stone.” 

Merriment  ran  high.  These  fabled  lovers  were  the 
choicest  fun  in  Quinnebasset.  The  naughty  young 
people  kept  up  a mathematical  calculation  as  to  the 
rate  in  which  the  number  increased,  and  declared  that 
Miss  O’Keil  had  begun  with  six,  and  got  up  to  thirty, 
cutting  every  lover  in  pieces  five  times — a slashing 
process,  but  perfectly  harmless  to  ghosts. 

I do  not  uphold  the  Quinnebasset  youth  in  this 
thing ; but  if  there  was  any  excuse  for  them,  it  was  in 
the  satisfaction  it  gave  the  poor  withered  old  crone. 
While  she  talked,  she  looked  and  felt  he^:self  a queen 
of  society.  And  every  shadowy  lover  she  evoked  and 
rejected  was  a clear  gain,  for  he  never  dropped  out  of 
her  memory  afterwards,  but  helped  to  swell  the  list  of 
the  slain. 

She  went  to  bed  that  night  in  charity  with  the  whole 
world;  and  so  ended  the  tea-drinking,  or,  as  Ford yce 
Bailey  classically  called  it,  the  symposium. 


216 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


THE  FIRST  LOVER. 


P,UT  it  seems  that  while  Miss  O’Neil  was  thus 
) calling  up  the  shades  of  lovers  past,  lovers  pres- 
ent were  improving  the  opportunity  to  whisper 
a few  words  in  one  another’s  ears.  At  the  close  of  the 
evening,  Judith,  looking  strangely  fluttered  and  half 
frightened,  took  Marian  one  side,  and  said  to  her,  “ I’m 
going  home  with  you  to  stay  all  night,  and  Robert 
must  go  with  us.  I won’t  have  any  one  else.” 

“Very  well,”  replied  Marian;  “I’ll  send  Keller  out 
of  the  way.”  But  what  it  meant  she  did  not  know. 

As  she,  and  Robert,  and  Judith  walked  along  the 
crisp  road,  — there  was  no  sidewalk  in  winter,  — Judith 
was  perfectly  mute,  and  to  call  attention  from  her, 
Marian  talked  with  great  volubility. 

“ What  a handsome  youn*g  man  Mr.  Bailey  is ! And 
so  well  behaved  ! I fancy  him  very  much  indeed.” 

“Do  you?  Well,  I can’t  say  he  is  exactly  my 
style,”  returned  Robert,  and  next  moment,  ashamed 
of  himself,  added,  “ though  I won’t  deny  he  has  the 
air  of  a gentleman.” 

“ Of  course  he  wouldn’t  be  your  style,  unless  he  were 
as  deep  as  the  Pacific  Ocean,”  said  Marian.  “You 
are  a dreadful  critic,  Robert.  Do  look  back  and  see 


THE  FIRST  LOVER, 


217 


Keller.  He  is  up  to  some  mischief,  I know,  by  the  way 
he  swings  himself  round.” 

Keller  was  sauntering  a little  behind  with  Mr.  Bailey, 
saying  confidentially  and  with  animated  gestures,  — 

“ By  the  way,  Bailey,  you’re  a stranger  here,  and  I 
don’t  know  but  I ought  to  say  a word  to  you  about 
these  Quinnebasset  girls.  Don’t  let  it  go  any  farther ; 
will  you?  They’re  the  nicest  creatures  in  the  world; 
but  the  fact  is,  just  between  ourselves,  a fellow  has  to 
walk  on  eggs  or  they  think  he  has  serious  intentions. 
The  best  girls  in  the  world  ; sensible,  too ; but  — well 
— rather  too  susceptible,  as  you  may  say.  A word  to 
the  wise  is  sufficient.  You  understand,  hey?” 

‘‘Why,  yes,  I'think  I do,”  stammered  young  Bailey, 
looking,  as  well  he  might,  a little  surprised.  “They 
don’t  appear  like  that  sort;  but  I’ll  have  my  eye  out 
and  be  careful.  ’Twould  be  a confounded  scrape, 
wouldn’t  it,  though,  to  enlist  any  of  their  affections  ac- 
cidentally? Much  obliged  to  you,  Prescott,  I’m  sure.” 
“Well,  yoiHre  a donkey,”  thought  Keller,  chuckling 
behind  his  comforter.  “Thought  I’d  sound  you  and 
see.” 

And  ready  to  explode  with  suppressed  laughter,  he 
continued  to  expatiate  upon  this  amiable  weakness  of 
the  girls  of  Quinnebasset,  which  ought  to  be  respected, 
he  said,  and  by  no  means  divulged  to  the  unfeeling 
world.  How  the  girls  would  have  longed  to  box  his 
ears  if  they  had  heard  him!  A more  refined  and  intel- 
ligent set  of  young  ladies  could  hardly  be  found  in  a 
New  England  village,  as  nobody  was  better  aware  than 
Keller;  but  a joke  was  sweet  to  his  soul,  and  the  temp- 
tation to  sell  a donkey  not  to  be  resisted. 


218 


THE  DOCTOR DAUGHTER. 


“ Now  the  deacon  is  sick,  and  you’re  obliged  to  change 
your  boarding-place,  Bailey,  I hope  you’ll  find  one 
where  there  aren’t  any  girls ; I advise  it  as  a friend.” 

And  marching  the  new  teacher  up  to  Deacon  Jud- 
kins’s door,  Keller  left  him  to  his  own  reflections,  and 
ran  home,  fairly  weak  with  laughter.  The  girls  had  al- 
ready gone  up  stairs,  but  they  could  hear  him  chuckling 
to  himself  in  the  front  hall,  and  going  off  in  little  bursts 
all  the  way  to  his  chamber. 

“Marian,”  said  Judith,  as  they  were  disrobing  for  the 
night,  “ I have  such  a strange  thing  to  tell  you.  I was 
in  the  kitchen  at  Miss  O’Neil’s,  you  know,  putting  up 
my  basket,  and  Silas  Hackett  came  out,  and  — and  — ” 

Marian  made  an  inarticulate  response  with  her  tooth- 
brush in  her  mouth.  If  she  had  only  looked  up  and 
seen  the  bright  spots  burning  in  Judith’s  cheeks,  she 
would  have  felt  more  curiosity  as  to  what  was  corning. 

“He  said  he  — he — Why,  Marian,  did  you  ever 
think  of  such  a thing  as  Silas  Hackett’s  caring  for  me  — 
particularly  ? ” 

Marian  wheeled  round,  and  levelled  her  tooth-brush 
at  Judith. 

“What!”  exclaimed  she,  staring  in  bewilderment. 

Judith  stood  combing  out  her  long  dark  hair*,  and 
looking  straight  befor  e her  at  the  lamp,  with  a shy,  tri- 
umphant sparkle  in  her  eyes,  somewhat  at  variance 
with  the  regretful  tone  of  her  voice. 

“Yes,  it  is  nothing  new,  he  says;  and  I’m  afraid  it’s 
very,  very  serious.  What  in  the  world  shall  I do  with 
him,  Marian  ? ” 

Marian  braced  herself  against  the  closet  door  befoi-e 
she  ventured  to  reply.  In  the  little  interval  since  Ju- 


THE  FIRST  LOVER, 


219 


dith  had  first  spoken,  a change  had  passed  over  their 
relations  to  each  other.  A real  live  lover  had  come 
between  them,  investing  the  once  familiar  friend  with  a 
new  and  mysterious  dignity. 

“Why,  how  did  Silas  happen  to  think  of  such  a 
thing?”  said  she,  at  last.  “He  has  always  known  you 
just  as  well  as  can  be.  Wasn’t  it  a funny  idea,  his  start- 
ing up  all  at  once,  in  this  way?  How  did  he  look? 
What  did  he  say?” 

Marian  was  not  aware  of  it,  but  she  spoke  with  some 
deference,  as  well  as  a slight  shade  of  pique.  In  every- 
thing heretofore  she  and  Judith  had  been  equals;  but 
here  was  something  they  could  not  share,  something 
that  might  not  be  held  as  common  property. 

“I  don’t  think  I could  tell  you  exactly,”  replied  Ju- 
dith, her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  lamp.  “ He  looked  very 
foolish  indeed,  and  made  some  remark  about  the  levee 
next  week,  what  a nice  moon  there  would  be ; and  right 
off  upon  that,  told  me  he  had  been  thinking  of  writing 
me  a letter.  ‘ Ah ! ’ said  I ; and  then  I looked  up  in 
his  face,  and  said,  ‘ O ! — ’ Dear  me,  I don’t  know  how 
to  repeat  it,  Marian ; but  the  truth  is,  this  has  been  go- 
ing on  for  some  time,  though  I didn’t  really  suspect  it, 
or  anything.  He  thinks  I’m  something  wonderful,  a 
great  deal  better  than  I really  am.”  And  Judith  gath- 
ered courage  to  move  her  eyes  towards  Marian,  as  she 
added,  with  a look  of  vast  experience,  “ That  is  always 
the  way,  you  know.” 

“Yes,  I suppose  so.  I don’t  know  anything  about 
it,”  was  the  meek  reply.  “ But,  Judith,  what  could  you 
say  ? It  is  such  a pity  about  this,  for  I am  sure  you  don’t 
care  for  him,  and  it’s  too  bad  to  hurt  his  feelings.” 


220 


THE  DOCTOR  S DAUGHTER, 


“ Hurt  his  feelings  ! That’s  a very  mild  way  of  put- 
ting it.  Break  his  heart,  you  mean.” 

“No,  I don’t  — that’s  all  nonsense,”  returned  Marian, 
bluntly,  as  she  unfastened  her  boots.  “ Such  things 
don’t  happen  nowadays  as  broken  hearts.  I guess 
Shakespeare  knows.  He  says  that  men  have  died  from 
time  to  time,  and  worms  have  eaten  them,  but  not  for 
love.” 

Marian  might  not  understand  mankind,  but  she  knew 
a little  of  the  genus,  second-hand,  from  Shakespeare. 

“ Ah,  but,  Marian,  Silas  never  cared  for  any  one  be- 
fore ! He  says  it’s  something  he  can’t  account  for,  but 
so  it  had  to  be.  And  now  the  question  is,  what  shall  I 
say  ? ” 

“Why,  haven’t  you  said  anything  yet?” 

“No;  I told  him  I’d  think  about  it.  I don’t  know 
my  own  mind.” 

“ Well,  there  ! ” exclaimed  Marian,  somewhat  recov- 
ered from  her  first  awe  and  humility.  “I  should  think 
you’d  know  your  own  mind  like  a flash  ; I should.  If  a 
young  man  were  to  come  into  that  gate  to  say  such 
a thing  to  me,  I should  have  a feeling  in  one  minute, 
whether  it  was  to  be  yes  or  no.” 

So  spoke  Marian  from  the  inmost  depths  of  self-igno- 
rance. 

“ Wait  till  you  have  the  trial  of  it,”  returned  Judith, 
from  the  sublime  heights  of  experience. 

And  so  the  girls  talked  on  and  on,  their  faces  press- 
ing the  same  pillow,  while  the  mercury  sank  lower  and 
lower,  and  Jack  Frost  embroidered  the  windows  with 
etchings  which  shut  out  the  cold  moon  and  the  ruddy 
Northern  Lights.  But,  confidential  as  they  were,  they 


THE  FIRST  LOVER, 


221 


did  not  fully  open  their  young  hearts  to  each  other: 
who  ever  did  it  yet?  ‘‘We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils  ” Ju- 
dith carefully  covered  up  the  fact  that  her  first  girlish 
fancy  had  been  given  to  Pitkin  Jones,  a person  on  whom 
her  friend  looked  with  some  contempt.  She  knew  it 
was  an  idle  dream,  which  ought  never  to  have  found  its 
way  into  her  head ; for  the  youth  with  ambrosial  locks 
had  plainly  never  spent  any  thoughts  on  her. 

“O,  no,  I couldn’t  talk  to  Marian  about  that,  she  is  so 
much  like  a child  in  some  things.  She  wouldn’t  see 
how  it  was  possible  for  me  to  care  for  a person  who 
didn’t  care  for  me.  As  if  that  weren’t  the  very  bewitch- 
ment of  it!  or  I begin  to  think  it  is.  She’s  too  high- 
minded,  or  cold-hearted  — which  is  it?  And  as  I’ve 
kept  the  secret  a whole  year,  I won’t  lisp  it  now. 
More  especially  as  I shouldn’t  wonder  if  it  was  half  im- 
agination, after  all.” 

While  Judith  was  thinking  thus  of  the  indifferent 
Pitkin,  but  talking  only  of  the  enamoured  Silas,  Marian, 
for  her  part,  mused  in  this  wise : — 

“ How  strange  it  must  be  to  have  any  one  think  of  you 
in  that  way  ! How  beautiful ! But  there  is  something 
about  these  things  I do  not  exactly  understand,  and  I 
presume  I never  shall.  I wouldn’t  say  it  to  Judith,  but 
in  my  French,  the  other  day,  I was  struck  with  a remark 
of  Corinne’s.  She  said  she  had  a conviction  that  she 
should  never  be  able  to  love  anybody  with  her  whole 
soul,  and  she  was  sorry.  I have  had  the  same  convic- 
tion myself,  ever  since  I can  remember;  or  seems  to  me 
I have.  But  I couldn’t  tell  this  to  Judith:  it  would 
give  her  a chance  to  say , ‘ Of  course  you’ll  never  love 


222 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


anybody,  if  anybody  never  asks  you  to ! ’ She  does  feel 
a little,  just  a little,  self-important” 

‘‘Judith,  what  think  now  about  being  uninterest- 
ing, and  people’s  hardly  noticing  you  are  alive  ? ” 

“I  think  the  same,”  replied  Judith,  serenely ; “this 
is  an  exception.  But,  honestly,  dear,  how  do  you  like 
Silas?” 

“You  needn’t  ask  my  candid  opinion,”  laughed  Mar- 
ian. “I’m  not  to  be  caught  in  that  trap  again.  I siij)- 
pose  you  expect  me  to  say  he’s  a perfect  jewel;  and  so 
he  is,  if  anybody  fancies  him.” 

And  Marian  went  on  with  her  unspoken  thoughts : — 
“ Young  men  are  not  very  interesting,  as  a general 
thing,  and  I never  could  make  up  my  mind  to  like  any 
one  that  didn’t  keep  his  finger-nails  nice.  I hope  Ju- 
dith won’t  talk  any  more,  for  my  eyes  are  drawing  to- 
gether.” 

“ But,  Marian,  as  for  fancying  Silas,  I must  confess  I 
always  thought  he  was  rather  awkward.  If  it  is  any- 
thing, it’s  his  real  worth,  you  know.  And  isn’t  that 
better,  after  all,  than  elegance  ? I’m  sure  Robert  would 
think  so.  How  do  you  suppose  Robert  would  like  it  ? 
Marian,  Marian,  why  don’t  you  speak?” 

The  only  answer  was  Marian’s  quiet,  regular  breath- 
ing, which  told  unmistakably  that  she  was  not  in  a con- 
dition just  now  to  discuss  afiTairs  of  sentiment. 

“What  a girl!”  thought  Judith,  rather  mortified. 
“ I wonder  if  she  has  any  heart,  — except  for  her  friends, 
of  course.” 

And  upon  that  fresh  wonder  she  herself  sailed  off  to 
sleep. 


THE  EOT  A TO  PAN. 


223 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  POTATO  PAN. 

Miss  Tottenham. 

t EW  YEAR’S  EVE.  My  father  and  Keller 
have  gone  to  a lecture,  and  I am  sitting  by  the 
fire,  with  my  feet  upon  the  fender,  and  my 
writing-desk  in  my  lap,  while  Benjie  kneels  on  an  ot- 
toman playing  jack-straws.  The  large  yellow  flames 
are  ascending  from  the  sticks  of  wood,  then  darting  back 
fitfully,  as  if  they  almost  wanted  to  get  out  of  their 
chimney-prison,  but  a gentle  human  pity  drew  them 
downward  continually. 

It  is  a cheerful  room  in  which  I sit,  for  it  is  our  own 
sitting-room  at  home,  and  home  looks  out  from  every 
object  on  which  my  eye  rests.  It  is  evening,  and  the 
German  lamp  burns  with  a soft  light  upon  the  centre- 
table.  Even  that  mild  radiance  has  a ray  of  home. 
The  curtains  are  looped  over  the  resters  in  the  usual 
home-fashion,  and  the  windows  let  in  gleams  of  a clear 
moonlight  evening,  which  is  shining  out  of  doors.  At 
short  intervals,  I hear  the  merry  sound  of  sleigh-bells 
ringing  out  very  clearly  in  the  still  winter  air,  and  now 
and  then  a few  indistinct  words  reach  my  ears,  spoken 
by  merry  sleigh-riders,  who  go  whizzing  by,  with  hearts 


224 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


gay  enough  to  keep  them  warm,  though  it  is  so  cold 
to-night. 

I am  very  happy,  Miss  Tottenham,  and  very  much  at 
home,  with  the  moonlight  looking  in  through  the  part- 
ed curtains;  with  the  soft  beaming  of  the  lamp,  striv- 
ing to  outdo  the  moon;  with  the  crackling,  jolly  fire, 
leaping  up  so  aspiringly  to  outdo  the  lamp ; indeed, 
with  the  whole  home  altogether. 

Who  would  think  that,  with  ray  dear  mother  ‘‘  lying 
in  her  white  sleep,”  I could  ever  be  so  happy  in  this 
house  ? But  I only  think  of  her  as  staying  away  in 
that  “high  country,”  where  it  may  be  she  can  look 
down  on  me  and  watch  all  I do.  At  any  rate,  whether 
she  can  see  me  or  not,  I shall  tell  her  all  about  it  by  and 
by.  How  much  I shall  have  to  say,  and  how  she  will 
fold  me  in  her  arms  and  kiss  me,  and  how  I shall  laugh 
and  cry  on  her  neck ! It  is  such  a weary,  weary  while 
since  that  morning  she  drove  away,  and  I watched  the 
little  window  in  the  back  of  the  carriage  till  it  was  only 
a speck.  She  is  the  same  woman  she  was  then ; for 
waking  in  the  likeness  of  Christ  cannot  change  one’s 
identity.  She  has  a gentle  voice,  and  dark,  wavy  hair, 
and  brown  eyes,  warm  with  love,  or  it  is  not  my  mother. 

Judith  longs  to  know  how  heaven  looks,  and  what 
the  angels  are  doing;  but  I do  not  feel  so  at  all — I 
want  to  keep  it  for  a surprise.  My  only  concern  is 
whether  I shall  ever  get  there.  I am  glad  it  doesn’t 
depend  upon  poor  me  to  build  a bridge  of  my  own  good 
deeds,  and  try  to  walk  to  heaven  on  it,  for  it  would  let 
me  through  like  a cobweb.  No,  it  is  only  the  infinite 
mercy  that  will  ever  take  me  there,  and  that  I know 
more  surely  every  day  of  my  life.  Strange,  that  those 


THE  POTATO  PAN, 


225 


gates,  which  the  whole  world  could  not  move,  should 
open  from  within  just  for  the  asking! 

This  is  the  last  night  of  the  year.  I ought  to  feel 
solemn,  but  I can’t.  The  people  riding  by  in  sleighs 
are  going  to  Poonoosac  to  dance  the  New  Year  in. 
How  many  ways  they  do  contrive  for  welcoming  the 
poor  young  thing!  They  dance  him  in,  shoot  him 
in,  and  ring  him  in  with  wild  bells.  I can’t  see  the 
need  of  it;  for  to  my  mind,  he  is  anything  but  bashful. 
He  comes  blustering  along,  blowing  his  fingers,  as  if  he 
cared  for  nobody  and  nobody  cared  for  him.  I have  a 
particular  spite  against  him.  He  is  always  the  means 
of  my  making  a thousand  new  resolutions,  which  is 
about  the  same  as  telling  myself  a thousand  lies.  Now, 
that’s  wicked.  Just  for  the  novelty  of  it,  I mean  to  be- 
gin this  year  with  only  one  promise,  and  see  if  I can  * 
keep  it  — the  promise  not  to  build  air-castles.  Between 
you  and  me.  Miss  Tottenham,  I find  I am  beginning 
to  have  some  of  the  silliest,  flimsiest  thoughts.  Let’s 
stop  it  at  once.  Do  you  suppose  Judith’s  love-notions 
are  catching ? I have  been  reading  ‘‘The  Marble  Faun,” 
and  day  before  yesterday,  while  I was  feeding  the  hens, 

I fancied  myself  Hilda  with  the  doves  flying  about  my 
head.  And  where  was  Kenyon  ? That  wonderful  com- 
ing man,  I mean,  whatever  his  name  is?  And  how 
would  he  look  when  he  came?  And  all  that  nonsense. 
“He’ll  have  only  one  fault,”  said  I;  “he’ll  think  too 
miudi  of  me  ; but  I’ll  try  to  forgive  him  for  that.” 

I suppose  the  hens  were  cackling  on  a high  key;  but 
1 paid  no  attention,  for  I was  thinking  about  that  man 
of  straw,  and  how  he  would  beg  me  to  go  with  him ; 
15 


226 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


when  suddenly  it  occurred  to  me  that  I had  made  a 
resolve  not  to  leave  my  father. 

‘‘  Go  away,”  said  I,  Vjitterly,  to  my  lover.  “ Go  away 
— it  is  of  no  use  to  urge  me.  My  heart  is  yours, 
but  duty  compels  me  to  stay  with  my  father.  Go, 
go!” 

I was  flourishing  the  potato  pan  at  him,  and  he  was 
looking  at  me  with  a face  of  anguish,  when  my  father 
rode  into  the  barn,  and  I jumped  and  screamed,  tipping 
over  the  pan,  potatoes,  johnny-cake,  and  all.  How  long 
I had  been  holding  it  out  at  arm’s  length  I don’t  know. 
My  father  looked  at  me  keenly,  and  said  he,  — 

‘‘That’s  a very  good  imitation  of  Judith.  But  mind 
you,  my  dear,  day-dreaming  won’t  do  for  my  daughter. 
If  you’re  out  of  business  you’d  better  wash  the  barn 
floor.” 

He  spoke  in  a laughing  way;  but  I know  he  meant 
it,  for  he  said  last  night,  after  my  geometry  lesson,  — 
“Well,  dear,  are  you  pretty  busy  these  days?” 

“ Why,  yes,  sir.  Mrs.  Nason,  Tom,  and  I have  been 
cutting  meat  for  sausages,  and  to-morrow  I’m  to  boil 
pumpkin,  and  bake  brown  bread  and  beans.  This  is  a 
work-a-day  world,  papa,  and  I don’t  get  much  time  to 
be  idle.” 

“Glad  of  it,”  said  he.  “Keep  moving;  that’s  the 
way  to  grow.  Did  you  ever  hear  the  wise  Frenchman’s 
three  rules  for  happiness?” 

“No,  sir.  I don’t  see  what  any  one  needs  of  rules; 
it’s  happiness  enough  just  to  be  alive.” 

“Some  people  think  differently,”  said  my  father; 
“ and  the  rules  are  worth  remembering.  The  first  is 


THE  POTATO  PAN. 


227 


occupation,  the  second  occupation.^  and  the  third  and 

last  is  still  OCCUPATION.” 

“ O,”  said  I,  “ then  I’ve  been  living  by  rule,  papa, 
and  didn’t  know  it.” 

“ Yes,”  said  he,  laying  his  hand  on  my  head,  as  he  of- 
ten does,  as  if  he  were  asking  a silent  blessing  over  it. 
‘‘  Yes,  daughter,  I am  glad  there  is  a work  in  this  world 
for  you,  as  noble  as  ever  a woman  found  to  do  — that 
of  making  home  happy.  But  there  is  one  thing  I wish 
you  to  remember.  Live  in  the  present.  Do  the  near- 
est duty,  and  don’t  let  your  thoughts  dwell  too  much 
upon  dream-love  and  shadow-heroes.” 

I blushed  crimson  at  that.  How  happened  he  to  be 
so  wise?  Was  it  my  tipping  over  the  potato  pan? 

‘‘  It  is  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  my  child, 
that  girls  of  seventeen  should  anticipate  these  matters ; 
and  your  father  is  the  last  person  who  would  blot  out 
of  your  life  the  beautiful  experience  of  love  which  is  to 
come  by  and  by.  But  let  it  be  of  the  Lord’s  sending, 
Marian.  Don’t  soil  the  white  page  of  the  future  with 
vain  imaginations.  It  will  be  spread  out  before  you, 
one  line  at  a time ; read  it  as  it  comes.” 

“Yes,  papa,”  said  I,  not  daring  to  look  in  his  face. 

“ I will  tell  you  a secret,  my  daughter.  You  are  more 
likely  to  marry,  and  marry  happily,  if  you  think  as  little 
about  the  matter  as  possible.  I have  good  reasons  for 
what  I say,  but  it  is  not  necessary  to  give  them  now  ; 
we  have  talked  long  enough  on  the  subject,  perhaps. 
The  truth  is,  I see  so  much  silly,  idle  sentimentality 
among  girls  of  your  age,  that  I wanted  to  throw  out  a 
little  word  of  warning.  My  daughter  mustn’t  be  senti- 


228 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER, 


mental!  She  must  cherish  no  unquiet  wish  for  bless- 
ings not  yet  ready  for  her,  but  try  to  say,  — 

‘ Henceforth  my  one  desire  shall  be, 

That  He  who  knows  me  best  should  choose  for  me.*  ** 

Now,  wasn’t  that  a queer  way  for  papa  to  talk  to  me  ? 
It  makes  my  cheeks  tingle  when  I think  of  it;  but  I’m 
glad  he  did  it.  I don’t  think  I have  become  what  Miss 
O’Neil  calls  lacsadaisical  yet;  and  now,  as  Thankful 
says,  ‘‘  I certain  shan’t.” 

Mr.  New  Year,  let  me  shake  spiritual  hands  with 
you.  Ugh ! how  cold  you  are ! Here’s  hoping  I may 
keep  my  promise,  and  be  able  to  look  you  in  the  face 
when  you  are  dying  of  old  age,  twelve  months  from 
this  time. 


LOVE-SHAKED, 


229 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

“ LOVE-SHAKED.” 

SteUDITH  entered  the  kitchen  at  Dr.  Prescott’s 
one  evening,  with  a look  on  her  face  which 
told  that  she  had  something  to  say.  Her  large 
dark  eyes  were  unusually  lustrous,  and  about  her  sensi- 
tive mouth  played  an  uncertain  smile,  hovering,  flicker- 
ing, dying  out,  and  coming  again.  Tom  sat  by  the 
stove  splitting  kindlings,  while  the  milk,  which  he  had 
brought  in  half  an  hour  ago,  stood  on  the  drop-table, 
with  its  foam  gradually  settling,  for  like  “ the  quality 
of  mercy,”  it  was  not  strained.” 

“ Where  is  Marian  ? ” 

“ Don’t  know.  Hain’t  seen  her  since  I came  in  from 
milking.” 

Judith  ran  up  the  back  stairs  with  remarkable  speed. 
As  she  approached  the  door  of  Marian’s  room  she 
heard  Benjie  saying,  in  a querulous  tone,  — 

“ Don’t  rub  me  very  hard,  Mamie ; I’m  a little  sore 
all  over.” 

‘‘  Come  in,”  said  Marian,  in  answer  to  Judith’s 
knock.  ‘‘  Why,  I thought  it  was  Pauline,  the  step  was 
so  light  and  quick.  I’m  giving  little  brother  his  Satur- 
day evening  bath,  and  it  seems  as  if  I should  never  get 


230 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


all  his  sore  fingers-  done  up,  and  his  little  bruises  taken 
care  of.” 

“ have  to  bear  everything,”  burst  forth  Benjie. 
“My  skates  are  too  big,  and  they  wobble  and  fall 
me  down  on  the  ice,  and  then  Hen  Page  keeps  a-punch- 
in’  me  so  I can’t  get  up.” 

“ O,  fie,  little  mannie ! ” said  Marian,  with  a warning 
glance  at  Judith,  who  was  on  the  point  of  laughing. 
“We  keep  a brave  heart,  you  know,  and  don’t  tell  of 
our  troubles,  and  then  we  forget  them.” 

“ Men  have  worse  times  ’n  women  do,  so  now ! ” said 
Benjie,  defiantly,  as  he  slyly  wiped  his  eyes  on  one  of 
his  bandaged  fingers,  and  subsided  into  his  flannel 
night-gown.  “ I’m  blacker  ’n  bluer  ’n  ever  you  was, 
Mamie,  you  bet.” 

Little  brother  was  not  usually  allowed  to  talk  slang ; 
but  considering  his  present  damaged  condition,  Marian 
prudently  winked  at  his  sins,  and,  dancing  him  off  to 
his  own  room,  put  him  to  bed  in  a warm  blanket. 

“Don’t  you  think  Benjie  is  a very  troublesome 
child?”  said  Judith,  following  her  friend  down  stairs, 
to  watch  hej:  strain  the  milk,  and  mix  buckwheats  for 
breakfast. 

“No;  I’m  sure  I don’t!”  was  the  quick  reply.  “He 
is  delicate  and  sensitive,  and  needs  a great  deal  of 
care ; but  I love  him  all  the  better  for  that.” 

And  as  she  spoke,  Marian  picked  up  the  child’s  cap 
from  the  kitclien  floor,  and  hung  it  on  its  nail,  with  a 
motherly  pat. 

“Well,  I think  you  fuss  over  him  more  than  you 
need  to,  dear;  and  so  does  aunt  Esther.  But  I must 


LOVE-SHAKED. 


231 


say  you  make  him  mind  beautifully.  How  do  you 
manage  ? ” 

“I  don’t  manage ; I don’t  know  how.  We  love  each 
otlier,  and  hate  to  hurt  each  other’s  feelings,  and  that’s 
all  there  is  about  it.” 

Judith  thought  of  her  own  little  brothers  at  home. 
She  had  never  been  harsh  with  them;  her  disposition 
was  certainly  more  amiable  than  Marian’s,  yet  they  did 
not  love  her  and  cling  to  her  particularly.  Why  was 
it  ? After  all,  it  was  rather  nice  that  they  didn’t. 

“I’ve  been  longing  all  day  to  see  you,”  said  she, 
when  they  were  at  last  in  the  sitting-room,  and  Marian 
had  taken  out  her  tatting. 

“Have  you?”  said  Marian,  her  little  rosy  finger-tips 
and  almond-shaped  nails  flashing  back  and  forth  with 
the  tatting-shuttle. 

“Yes,”  returned  Judith,  folding  her  nerveless  hands, 
w^hich  were  rather  sallow,  and  showed  the  veins  too 
clearly.  “Yes;  for  it’s  all  settled.” 

“Settled!  How?  What?” 

“I’m  engaged.” 

Marian  gave  a diminutive  scream,  and  dropped  her 
work  in  her  lap.  “Why,  Judith  Willard,  you  told  me 
only  last  week  you  didn’t  care  at  all  for  Silas  Hackett. 
Haven’t  you  changed  your  mind  very  soon  ? ” 

There  was  a sudden  drooping  of  Judith’s  head.  It 
was  a very  large  head,  and  always  seemed  too  heavy  a 
responsibility  for  her  slender  neck. 

“I  don’t  know  whether  I’ve  changed  my  mind  or 
not,  and  that’s  the  worst  of  it,”  sighed  she. 

Marian  fixed  her  eyes  on  Judith’s  face  in  dumb  sur- 
prise. A fine  face  it  was,  in  spite  of  its  moonlight  pale- 


232 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


ness,  one  you  would  turn  to  look  at  a second  time, 
and  still  it  might  not  satisfy  you  entirely.  There  was 
thought  in  it,  and  feeling ; but  something  seemed  to  be 
lacking.  The  mouth,  though  sweet,  was  rather  weak, 
perhaps. 

“You  haven’t  the  least  idea  how  I’ve  puzzled  my 
brains  over  this,  Marian.  I couldn’t  eat  or  sleep  till 
I’d  made  up  my  mind.” 

“What  was  Silas’s  hurry?”  asked  Marian,  coolly. 
Judith  had  never  been  able  to  make  her  comprehend 
the  situation. 

“You  talk  like  a child,  Marian.  Just  as  if  I could 
keep  him  waiting  forever.” 

It  was  not  the  first  time  since  the  advent  of  the  new 
lover  that  the  old  friend  had  been  called  a child,  and  it 
did  not  please  her  very  well. 

“ At  any  rate,”  said  she,  with  emphasis,  “ Silas  isn’t 
so  old  but  he  might  wait  a while,  and  I wouldn’t  say 
‘yes,’  when  I only  meant  ‘may  be  so.’  By  and  by 
yoif  11  change  it  to  ‘ no,’  and  then  j^eople  will  call  you  a 
flirt.” 

“ Marian  Prescott,  aren’t  you  ashamed  to  talk  so  to 
me?  As  if  I would  break  my  word  on  any  account, 
my  sacred  word ! Besides,  I do  love  Silas  very  much.” 

“ O,  you  do,  do  you  ? Then  it’s  all  right.” 

“I  mean  I’m  be^dnning  to.  I wondered  and  won- 
dered, you  know,  and  couldn’t  be  sure,  till,  night  before 
last,  at  the  lecture,  don’t  you  remember  he  passed  right 
by  me  in  the  vestry,  and  walked  home  with  Marie 
Smith?  Well,  I knew  then,  by  the  way  I felt,  that  I 
really  did  care  for  him,  for  I was  as  jealous  as  I 
could  be.” 


LOVE-SHAKED. 


233 


Marian  looked  relieved.  Judith’s  words  seemed  to 
have  the  true  ring  now,  for  she  had  heard  that  love 
and  jealousy  always  went  together.  What  if  the  girl 
did  say  last  Monday  she  “ wished  Si  Hackett  was  in 
Botany  Bay”?  That  was  probably  a good  sign;  Mar- 
ian presumed  it  was.  And,  a little  afraid  of  being 
snubbed  again  as  a child,  she  sat  in  discreet  silence, 
looking  timidly  at  her  friend,  to  see  what  she  would 
say  next. 

“Yes,  I’m  sure  it’s  all  right,”  continued  Judith,  rais- 
ing her  chin  with  more  conOdence. 

“ I thought  you  were  going  to  talk  with  Robert.” 

“O,  I did,  and  he  said  nothing  could  have  suited 
him  better.” 

“ I knew  he’d  say  that.” 

“Yes;  and  that  was  one  reason  — I mean,  I was 
very,  very  glad  to  have  Robert  pleased.  It  isn’t  every- 
body he  likes,  you  know.” 

“And  of  course  Silas  is  pleased  too,”  ventured 
Marian,  thinking  she  must  be  safe  in  saying  as  much 
as  that. 

Judith  answered  by  a meaning  smile,  implying  that 
words  were  too  feeble  to  express  Silas’s  rapturous  con- 
dition. 

“I  don’t  know,  upon  my  word,  what  would  have  be- 
come of  him  if  I’d  said  no.” 

Marian’s  upper  lip  curled  a little ; it  was  the  worst 
fault  with  her  mouth,  that  that  upper  lip  did  curl  so 
easily. 

“Silas  has  a good  constitution,  Jude,” — this  was 
what  she  longed  to  say,  — “ and  I guess  ’twould  take 
more  than  No  to  kill  him.” 


234 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


But  she  tatted  very  fast,  and  said  nothing ; and  pres- 
ently, when  Judith  went  on  to  repeat  some  of  the 
young  man’s  words,  and  to  hint  at  his  gratitude  and 
happiness,  she  let  her  work  fall  slowly  out  of  her  hands, 
and  sat  looking  reverently  at  her  friend,  as  a glow- 
ing worm  might  look  at  a star. 

‘‘  Perhaps  men  ham  died  from  time  to  time,  and 
worms  have  eaten  them,  for  love,”  thought  she.  ‘‘  It  is 
just  the  most  beautiful  thing!  I should  think  Judith 
would  feel  perfectly  happy ; but  she  doesn’t.” 

And  the  fact  that  Judith  could  be  the  object  of  such 
adoration,  and  not  be  in  ecstasies,  completed  Marian’s 
astonishment. 

“ May.  I mention  this  to  any  one  ? ” asked  she,  after 
a few  'moments  of  awe-struck  silence. 

“ Certainly ; I’m  willing,  and  of  course  Silas  is,”  re- 
plied Judith,  arousing  herself  from  a dream. 

Marian  mentally  resolved  to  tell  her  father  and  Kel- 
ler at  the  first  opportunity.  How  amazed  they  would 
be!  It  was  only  a few  days  ago  that  her  father  had 
spoken  in  such  a patronizing  tone  about  love  affairs,  as 
if  they  were  things  a long  way  off  in  the  future,  which 
“ my  daughter  must  not  think  about  yet  ” ! And  here 
was  Judith,  only  eight  months  older,  an  engaged  wo- 
man in  good  and  regular  standing.  What  would  he 
say  to  that  ? 

The  doctor  set  down  his  coffee-cup  suddenly,  when 
he  heard  the  news,  but  had  the  presence  of  mind  to 
pass  the  sirup  to  Benjie. 

' “‘Saturday  dreamed,  and  Sunday  told,”’  began 
Keller. 

“No,  indeed!”  returned  Marian,  triumphantly,  from 


LOVE-SHAKED, 


235 


behind  the  coffee-urn.  There  is  no  dreaming  about 
this ; it’s  a positive  fact.” 

‘‘Poor  Si!  He^s  a goner,  then!”  muttered  Keller, 
under  breath.  “ Whew  ! ” 

“ What  do  you  think  of  it,  papa  ? ” asked  Marian,  stir- 
ring the  cream,  with  a very  mature  air. 

“I  think  Silas  Hackett  has  made  a fool  of  himself.” 

“ Kow,  father  ! ” 

“Excuse  me,  daughter.  You  know  I never  did  see 
Judith  with  your  eyes.  Silas  Hackett  is  an  enterpris- 
ing, sensible  fellow,  and  I feel  an  interest  in  him,  and 
wish  him  a better  wife.” 

“ I’d  as  soon  marry  a baby  as  Jude,”  put  in  Keller, 
with  biting  sarcasm. 

Marian’s  cheeks  burned  indignantly,  but  she  would 
not  deign  a glance  at  Keller.  Nobody  had  asked  his 
opinion. 

“ I am  surprised  at  both  of  them,”  remarked  the  doc- 
tor, after  a pause.  “ I should  think  Silas  had  too  much 
practical  common  sense  to  fancy  Judith,  and  Judith 
not  enough  to  fancy  him.” 

“ O,  father  Prescott ! ” 

“ It  never’ll  amount  to  anything,”  said  Keller,  de- 
lighted to  take  sides  with  his  father.  “Jude’s  too 
slack-twisted  to  go  through  anything  she  undertakes. 
She  always  leaves  off  in  the  middle.” 

“ That  from  you  ! ” Marian  longed  to  say,  for  Keller 
never  seemed  to  be  aware  of  his  own  want  of  stability. 
But  the  daughter  of  the  house  was  learning  to  avoid 
cutting  remarks. 

“Let’s  see — how  old  is  Judith?”  asked  the  doctor. 

“ Eighteen  this  month,  papa ; and  thinks  she  is  old 


236 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


enough  to  know  her  own  mind,”  was  the  dignified 
reply. 

“Poor  motherless  child!”  said  Dr.  Prescott,  in  a 
softened  tone. 

And  after  that  he  finished  his  breakfast  in  silence,  and 
nothing  further  was  said  by  any  one  about  the  new  en- 
gagement. Ui^on  the  whole,  the  announcement  had 
not  been  as  triumphant  as  Marian  had  expected. 

The  winter  had  opened  very  gayly,  but  now  it  was 
likely  to  be  rather  dull.  Keller,  after  Marian  had 
nearly  worn  out  her  left  forefinger  making  red  shirts, 
suddenly  tired  of  the  idea  of  Wisconsin  coal  mines, 
and  wouldn’t  go.  But  when  he  saw  Silas  Hackett  start- 
ing for  the  lake  to  fell  timber,  he  was  eager  to  follow. 
“And  by  the  way,  it  would  be  such  a pity  to  waste  the 
red  shirts.”  His  father  consented  at  last,  perhaps  with 
the  secret  hope  that  “tending  sled”  might  reconcile 
the  boy  to  the  sad  fate  of  going  to  college. 

Keller  set  out  for  the  woods  in  high  spirits,  he  and 
,Silas  clad  in  red  shirts  and  striped  blouses,  and  crack- 
ing jokes  all  the  way  to  Tomhegan  township.  Very 
Soon  after,  Robert  went  to  Brunswick,  to  attend  medi- 
cal lectures,  and  Pitkin  Jones  found  business  in  an  in- 
surance office  in  Hartford. 

Judith  bore  Silas’s  absence  with  great  fortitude.  In- 
deed, she  told  Marian  she  believed  she  liked  him  better 
when  he  was  away  from  her,  for  then  she  could  idealize 
hira^  and  forget  some  of  his  peculiarities  which  annoyed 
her.  Marian  thought  this  rather  odd;  but  then  Judith 
herself  was  odd,  and  everything  about  these  things  was 
a mystery  to  inexperienced  young  Marian. 

Aunt  Esther  did  not  like  the  engagement,  and  said 


LOVE-SHAKED. 


237 


Judy  would  make  ‘‘a  poor  stick  for  a farmer’s  wife.” 
The  child  had  always  weighed  on  her  mind,  and  to 
cure  her  of  natural  lack  of  “ gumption,”  and  teach  her 
general  housework,  the  good  woman  had  scolded  hard 
enough,  if  that  were  all.  She  had  scolded,  and  Tid  and 
Mate  had  grumbled ; but  somehow  they  three  always 
did  the  drudgery  — never  Judith.  Not  that  Judith 
really  meant  to  shirk,  but  while  she  was  getting  ready 
to  do  a thing  it  was  already  half  done  by  some  one 
else.  This  was  a great  pity,  for  Dr.  Prescott  was  right 
when  he  said,  if  her  mind  had  been  more  occupied  it 
would  never  have  become  so  morbid.  It  was  she  who 
needed  the  Frenchman’s  three  rules  for  happiness,  not 
Marian. 

Aunt  Esther  was  so  ‘‘’palled”  at  the  thought. of  an 
engaged  girl’s  not  knowing  how  to  make  a decent 
loaf  of  bread,  that  she  scolded  harder  than  ever,  to 
atone  for  lost  time.  But  scolding  had  a bad  effect  on 
Judith : it  drove  her  to  the  solitude  of  her  own  cham- 
ber, away  from  uncongenial  people,  there  to  brood  over 
her  wrongs,  and  sometimes  give  vent  to  her  wounded 
feelings  in  verse.  Some  of  Judith’s  poetry  had  the  real 
poetic  fire,  for  uninteresting  as  I fear  she  seems  to  you, 
she  had  fine  powers  of  mind,  and  with  proper  training 
might  have  made  a very  different  girl. 

She  told  Marian  she  knew  it  was  her  destiny  never 
to  be  happy,  though  she  thought  very  likely  she  might 
one  day  be  famous.  There  were  thoughts  growing  in 
her  brain  which  she  should  give  to  the  world,  and  in 
return  the  world  would  give  her  a name. 

“ Don’t  talk  so,”  said  Marian ; “ it  makes  me  shiver 
to  hear  you.  Just  as  if  you  were  going  up  on  a moun- 


238 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


tain  to  turn  into  a statue  ! Besides,  what  will  become 
of  poor  Silas  while  you  are  up  there  ? ” 

“As  true  as  you  live,  I forgot  there  was  any  such 
person,”  replied  Judith,  with  a start,  like  a medium 
coming  out  of  a trance.  “I  tell  you,  Marian,  a girl 
can’t  always  keep  it  in  mind  that  she’s  engaged.” 

“No,  I suppose  not,”  returned  Marian,  doubtfully. 
Aunt  Esther  was  not  the  only  one  who  disapproved 
of  the  engagement.  Dr.  Prescott  frowned  upon  it  too. 
He  said  if  Judith  would  throw  off  her  masterly  inac- 
tivity, and  try  to  fit  herself  for  a good  wife,  he  might 
approve  of  it ; but  instead  of  that,  she  appeared  to  be 
“ love-shaked,”  walked  like  one  in  a dream,  and  fed  her 
mind  on  novels.  He  did  not  like  her  infiuence  over 
Marian,  and  perhaps  nothing  but  his  respect  for  Robert 
kept  him  from  laying  down  pretty  strict  rules  against 
the  intercourse  between  the  tw^o  girls. 

“ What  do  you  think  ? ” said  Judith,  coming  into  the 
kitchen  one  morning,  when  Marian,  with  a blue  sweep- 
ing cap  on,  was  stirring  up  a cottage  pudding.  “We 
are  going  to  have  a boarder ! ” 

“ A boarder  ? Who  is  it  ? I desire  to  know.” 

“The  new  teacher,  Mr.  Fordyce  Bailey,”  replied 
Judith,  with  some  animation.  “Deacon  Judkins  is  so 
sick  he  had  to  go  somewhere,  and  aunt  Esther  thought 
we’d  better  take  him.  She  likes  him;  she  says  he 
knows  how  to  hold  his  tongue.” 

“But  when  he  does  talk,  Jude,  it’s  in  Johnsonese  — 
such  big  words  as  symposium  and  coruscation.  And 
then  he  parts  his  hair  in  the  middle.  The  more  I see 
him,  the  less  I like  him,”  said  Marian,  swinging  open 
the  oven  door. 


LOVE-SHAKED. 


239 


Nonsense!  I presume  he  has  a widow’s  peak,  and 
is  obliged  to  part  his  hair  in  the  middle.  I hope  that 
little  remark  Robert  made  the  night  of  the  O’Neil  sym- 
posium hasn’t  turned  you  against  him,  child.” 

Marian  thrust  her  pudding  into  the  oven  disdainfully. 
Did  Judith  think  she  couldn’t  form  her  own  opinions 
without  the  aid  of  other  people’s  brothers  ? 

“But  I don’t  see  why  aunt  Esther  takes  him.  I 
should  think  he  would  interfere  with  her  making  rag 
carpets.” 

“ W ell,  Marian,  between  ourselves,  I suspect  it’s  be- 
cause we  have  such  quantities  of  meat  laid  down  in 
snow,  and  she’s  expecting  a February  thaw.” 

Marian  smiled  back  a look  of  intelligence.  Being  a 
housekeeper  herself,  and  knowing  aunt  Esther’s  frugal 
turn  of  mind,  she  saw  the  full  force  of  the  remark. 

“I  am  rather  glad  he’s  coming,”  yawned  Judith. 
“ He’ll  help  pass  away  the  winter.  I know  you  don’t 
mind  it,  but  Quinnebasset  is  dreadfully  dull.” 

“ The  winter  is  nearly  gone,”  said  Marian,  thought- 
fully cutting  up  pieces  of  butter  on  a i:»latter,  ready  for 
the  steak  she  was  about  to  broil.  She  was  wonder- 
ing whether  she  might  not  find  it  disagreeable  to  be 
continually  meeting  the  new  teacher,  whenever  slie 
ran  into  Mr.  Willard’s.  The  idea  of  staying  away 
from  Judith  on  his  account  did  not  occur  to  her; 
though  possibly  it  might  if  she  had  known  the  warn- 
ing Keller  had  given  the  young  man  concerning  the 
Quinnebasset  girls ! 


240 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


‘‘worse  than  none.” 


^^^^^^ORDYCE  BAILEY  was  small  and  dapper, 
dressed  with  great  care,  and  sported  a cane  and 
a wise-looking  pair  of  spectacles  ; had  hair  the 
color  of  a blood-orange,  parted  it  nearly  in  the  middle, 
and  was  letting  it  grow  out  to  a poetical  length  down 
his  neck.  He  wus  more  than  straight ; he  bent  back- 
ward. He  had  an  uncomfortable  habit  of  staring  you 
full  in  the  face,  which  was  rather  embarrassing,  but  in 
other  respects  he  seemed  to  be  very  well  bred.  He 
had  divers  gifts  of  mind,  but  no  common  sense  ; good 
principles,  good  habits,  a “ faculty  for  government,”  and 
some  book  knowledge  ; yes,  but  a “handful  of  common 
sense  is  better  than  a bushel  of  learning;”  and  a hand- 
ful he  hadn’t,  or  even  a thimbleful.  But  something 
else  he  did  have,  which  made  him  quite  as  comfortable, 
and  that  was  self-esteem.  Coleridge  tells  us  of  a man 
who  thouojht  so  much  of  himself  that  he  almost  took 


off  his  hat  whenever  he  said,  “ I.”  Mr.  Bailey  might 
have  been  the  man. 

He  came  from  Boston,  and  brought  such  a knowledge 
of  metaphysics  that  Mr.  Hinsdale  couldn’t  speak  before 
him.  He  also  understood  “ elective  affinities,”  and 
everything  else  that  is  worth  knowing. 


WORSE  THAN  NONE. 


241 


Aunt  Esther  was  mistaken  when  she  thought  him  so 
quiet.  She  had  seen  him  but  once,  and  that  was  at  a 
parish  gathering,  or  sociable,  where  he  was  taking  notes 
privately  to  send  to  a newspaper.  He  was  a great 
talker;  but  Keller  Prescott’s  alarming  description  of 
the  Quinnebasset  girls  had  put  him  on  his  guard.  He 
knew  he  was  very  fascinating,  but  he  didn’t  mean  to 
be ; he  wanted  to  walk  in  the  straight  path  of  duty, 
and  break  as  few  hearts  as  possible.  So  you  see  he 
was  really  conscientious.  It  would  have  been  safest  to 
shut  himself  up  entirely,  but  that  might  be  bad  for  his 
health  ; and  if  people  would  fall  in  love  with  him,  just 
by  meeting  him  at  parties,  he  didn’t  see  how  he  could 
be  to  blame  ; they  must  take  their  own  risks.  Lately, 
he  had  been  studying  too  hard,  was  out  of  health,  and 
out  of  pocket,  and  glad  to  accept  the  offer  fiom  his 
uncle  Judkins  of  a country  school  for  the  winter.  But 
then,  when  he  came  he  did  not  know  what  soft-hearted 
girls  there  were  at  Quinnebasset. 

Now,  this  was  the  sort  of  young  man  who  had  come 
to  Mr.  Willard’s  and  taken  possession  of  the  guest- 
chamber,  with  the  black-walnut  furniture  and  new  soap- 
stone stove.  He  was  very  good-natured,  had  no  ob- 
jection to  fried  pork,  and  helped  Tid  and  Mate  with 
their  algebra  in  the  evening.  At  first,  he  was  rather 
shy  of  Judith,  out  of  regard  to  her  j;)eace  of  mind  ; but 
when  he  heard  of  her  engagement,  he  thought  it  safe 
to  ask  her  to  join  his  class  in  astronomy.  He  was  quite 
at  home  in  the  stars,  and  enjoyed  marshalling  his  pu- 
pils into  the  highway,  and  pointing  out  the  constella- 
tions with  his  bamboo  cane.  When  Judith  proposed 
Marian  as  one  of  the  class,  Mr.  Bailey  doubted  whether 
16 


242 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


it  was  just  the  thing,  for  he  saw  she  blushed  easily,  and 
must,  therefore,  be  very  susceptible.  But  he  could  not 
say  this  to  Judith,  — modesty  forbade,  — and  as  there 
seemed  to  be  no  other  good  and  sufficient  objection, 
he  had  to  let  her  come.  Woful  mistake ! For  after 
that  half  a dozen  other  girls  of  her  age  claimed  the 
same  privilege.  They  did  not  attend  the  district 
school ; they  were  too  old  for  that ; and,  but  for  this 
astronomy  class,  poor-  Mr.  Bailey  could  have  kept  clear 
of  them,  and  not  damaged  their  budding  affections. 
But  here  he  was,  an  irresistible  young  man,  just  out  of 
college,  surrounded  by  a bevy  of  admiring  young  ladies, 
who  hung  on  his  words,  and  were  evidently  half  in  love 
at  the  very  first  lesson.  It  was  a trying  position,  es- 
pecially for  a young  man  with  such  unflinching  ideas 
of  duty.  The  girls  simply  thought  him  pompous  and 
disagreeable,  and  laughed  among  themselves  at  Marian’s 
off-hand  description. 

“Mr.  Bailey  belongs  to  the  aristocracy  — he  makes 
you  feel  as  if  you  made  soap  for  a living ! ” 

Still,  they  had  no  idea  how  enormously  conceited  he 
really  was.  He  proved  to  be  a good  teacher,  and  was 
persuaded  to  take  a private  school  in  the  spring,  which 
everybody  attended,  academy  girls  and  all. 

Marian  had  always  been  in  the  habit  of  running  into 
Mr.  Willard’s  at  any  hour  of  the  day,  and  went  still 
oftener  after  Mr.  Bailey  came,  on  account  of  the  as- 
tronomy lessons.  In  the  girlish  simplicity  which  always 
belongs  to  seventeen,  or  always  ought  to,  she  never 
thought  of  such  a thing  as  his  taking  her  calls  to  him- 

O O 

selfj  especially  as  she  really  disliked  him,  in  spite  of  her 
efforts  to  the  contrary. 


WORSE  THAN  NONE. 


243 


“ But,  then,”  as  she  said  to  Judith,  ‘‘  I mean  to  treat 
him  politely,  if  it  half  kills  me,  and  perhaps  I shall  feel 
better  towards  him.  You  know  we  tried  being  kind 
to  poor  O’Neil,  and  now  she  doesn’t  seem  half  so  dis- 
agreeable to  us  as  she  did.” 

Judith  said,  for  her  part,  she  didn’t  see  but  Mr.  Bai- 
ley was  nice  enough  ; why  not  ? 

“That’s  just  as  anybody  thinks,”  returned  Marian; 
“but  here  he  comes.  I hope  I can  slip  off  without  his 
seeing  me.” 

But  Mr.  Bailey  made  such  rapid  progress  with  his 
little  cane,  that  the  girls  had  not  turned  the  corner  be- 
fore he  met  them  fice  to  face.  Marian  greeted  him 
with  a faint  smile,  followed  by  a blush  of  shame  just 
for  thinking  how  hard  the  smile  came.  The  smile 
might  not  have  frightened  the  youth  so  much,  but  the 
blush  was  perfectly  appalling.  What  did  that  girl 
mean  by  blushing  every  time  she  saw  him  ? What  did 
she  mean  by  putting  herself  so  much  in  his  way,  and 
at  the  same  time  seeming  so  shy  of  him,  never  speaking 
unless  he  spoke  to  her,  and  then  only  in  monosyllables? 
He  had  reason  to  think  the  girls  in  this  country  village 
were  all  very  susceptible ; but  hadn’t  he  seen  from  the 
first  that  Mai'ian  was  the  most  so  of  all  ? 

“ The  feeling  is  deeper  in  her  case,  for  she  sees  more 
of  me  than  the  others  do.  I wonder  if  the  doctor  no- 
tices it.  Fathers  are  rather  blind  in  such  matters. 
But  if  he  has  noticed  it,  I hope  he  doesn’t  blame 
thought  the  conscientious  young  man,  as  he  marched 
up  Mr.  Willard’s  staircase,  with  a groan.  “I  don’t  see 
why  I was  made  so  fascinating,”  said  he,  addressing  the 


244 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


looking-glass,  which  cast  back  the  cruel  reflection  of  a 
perfect  Adonis  with  fists  clinched. 

To  calm  his  excited  feelings  Mr.  Bailey  took  a stroll 
in  the  graveyard.  If  I did  not  know  him  myself,  per- 
sonally, I should  never  dare  record  what  follows,  for  it 
almost  surpasses  belief.  But,  girls,  such  a man  as  this 
does  exist,  and  I have  seen  him.  Marian  may  give  the 
story  in  her  own  words. 

Miss  Tottenham. 

March  15.  I don’t  believe  I can  tell  it.  My  face  is 
on  fire,  my  soul,  too  ! I have  sat  here,  shaking  with 
laughter,  and  at  the  same  time  so  ashamed  that  I don’t 
dare  look  in  the  glass. 

That  Mr.  Bailey ! That  little  red-headed  goose ! 
To  think  he  should  have  thought — Why,  I was  walk- 
ing in  the  graveyard,  just  to  see  if  I could  find  some 
moss,  up  in  one  corner,  — there’s  always  some  there 
when  the  snow  leaves  a bare  spot,  — and  in  he  came, 
as  if  he  was  owner  of  the  grounds,  and  began  to  “ beau 
me  ” round  among  the  tombs.  I stood  it  as  well  as  I 
could.  He  talked  about  death  and  eternity,  and  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  solemnize  my  mind  ; but,  if  you’ll  be- 
lieve it,  I got  to  laughing!  I suppose  it  was  seeing 
that  cane  dance  back  and  forth,  pointing  out  the  in- 
scriptions on  the  gravestones,  as  if  he  were  teaching, 
me  my  letters. 

I hoped  he  wouldn’t  notice,  for  my  head  was  turned 
away,  and  I wasn’t  shaking  much  ; but  he  stopped  in 
the  middle  of  “ Thanatopsis,”  and  said  he, — 

“Miss  Marian,  you  would  not  laugh  if  you  were  in  a 


IN  the  churchyard.  Page  244. 


WORSE  THAN  NONE. 


245 


sane  state  of  mind.  Poor  child  ! And  to  think  I 
should  be  the  cause  of  it ! ” 

I thought  his  feelings  were  wounded,  of  course, 
though  I had  never  supposed  he  was  sensitive  before. 

“ Forgive  me,  sir ; I didn’t  mean  to,”  said  I,  steady- 
ing myself  against  a gravestone,  and  feeling  dreadfully 
ashamed. 

‘‘  Poor,  poor  child ! it  is  I who  should  apologize,” 
said  he,  patting  the  crown  of  my  hat.  ‘‘Your  nerves 
are  quite  unstrung.  Your  sweet,  girlish  nature  — ” 

I wish  I could  remember  the  precise  words ; but  it 
was  something  about  “ your  sweet,  girlish  nature,  poor, 
poor  child ! and  your  young  susceptibilities  awakened 
too  soon,  to  be  rudely  crushed  and  torn.” 

I had  no  idea  what  he  meant ; but  it  sounded  so  queer 
that  I giggled  right  out. 

“ I must  go  home,”  said  I ; “ my  father  will  be  want- 
ing his  supper.” 

“ Stay,”  said  Mr.  Bailey,  swinging  his  cane.  “ Now 
that  I have  begun  to  speak  upon  this  interesting  and 
delicate  subject,  I think  I ought  to  finish.  I may  never 
have  the  courage  again.  Don’t  let  it  pain  you,  dear 
child,  that  I — I — can  read,  and,  as  I may  say,  intu- 
itively understand  your  feelings.” 

“Sir?”  said  I. 

“ DovUt  blush  so.  Miss  Marian.  Our  feelings  are  in- 
voluntary— we  are  not  to  blame  for  them.  Love 
comes  to  every  one  sooner  or  later. 

‘ A mighty  pain  to  love  it  is, 

And  ’tis  a pain  that  pain  to  miss,’  &c.,  &c.” 

“ I don’t  know,  at  all,  what  you  mean,”  said  I,  run- 


246 


THE  DOCTOR’S  DAUGHTER^ 


ning  away  from  him  ; for  I was  afraid  he  was  going  to 
propose  on  the  spot,  though  it  seemed  a preachy  way 
to  begin.  But  he  followed  and  cornered  me  against  a 
gravestone. 

“ Miss  Marian,”  said  he,  as  solemn  as  a death’s  head, 
“ did  you  ever  fancy  you  had  waked  a responsive  chord 
in  my  heart  ? ” 

“No,  sir,”  said  I;  “I  never  thought  of  such  a thing. 
But  I must  go  home  now,  and  get  my  father’s  supper.” 

He  took  my  hand  ; but  I snatched  it  away.  If  he 
was  trying  to  make  love  to  me,  I thought  I had  had 
about  enough  of  it ; but  I was  in  such  a fit  of  laughter 
that  I couldn’t  stop  myself  to  save  my  life. 

“ Don’t  be  offended,  dear  nervous  child.  I have  seen, 
I could  not  help  seeing,  the  workings  of  your  suscep- 
tible young  heart;  but  the  knowledge  has  never  for 
one  instant  lowered  you  in  my  esteem.  Scamp  should 
I be  if  it  had!” 

“Sir?”  said  I.  I thought  he  meant  — well,  I don’t 
know  what  I thought;  but  not  the  real  thing.  No,  I 
never  dreamed  of  that. 

“ I am  the  one  to  blame,”  said  he ; “ but  really,  I 
have  tried  not  to  attract  you.  I am  not  such  a villain 
as  to  wish  to  gain  the  fresh  affections  of  a little  girl 
like  you,  just  to  throw  them  away.  If  I am  fascinating 
to  your  sex,  it  is  really  because  I can’t  help  it,  dear! 
You  are  a charming,  unsophisticated  child,  and  I am 
interested  in  you ; but  I cannot,  cannot  return  your 
feelings.  Besides  that,  I am  not  in  a situation  to 
marry.  And  the  sooner  you  know  it,  my  dear  girl, 
the  better.” 

Why,  Miss  Tottenham,  the  man  thought  I was  in 


WORSE  THAN  NONE. 


247 


love  with  him!  That  was  what  he  meant!  I was  so 
taken  by  surprise  that  I believe  I screamed.  Really, 
I don’t  know  what  I did  ; only  it  seems  to  me  I ran 
right  round  one  of  the  graves,  and  then  whirled  about 
and  “made  a cheese.”  The  idea  of  it!  In  love  with 
Fordyce  Bailey,  when  I can’t  bear  even  the  squeak  of 
his  boots ! 

“Mr.  Bailey,”  said  I,  “let  me  go  by  you,  sir;  I want 
to  go  home.” 

“Poor,  poor  child!”  said  he,  holding  me  by  the 
wrists.  I know  he  thought  I was  a little  crazy. 

“ Let  me  go  ! ” cried  I ; “ my  — father  — wants  — 
his  — supper ! ” 

“But  try  to  calm  yourself,  first,  my  dear  girl!  Was 
I too  harsh  with  you  — too  abrupt  ? Will  you  forgive 
me  ? I meant  it  for  your  good.” 

I could  have  pulled  out  every  spear  of  his  hair. 

“Forgive  you?”  said  I.  “I  forgive  you  for  being 
the  greatest  fool  that  ever  lived  in  this  world.  But 
my  father  won’t  forgive  you,  sir.  When  he  knows 
what  you’ve  been  saying  to  me,  sir,  pie’ll  — I don’t 
know  what  lie’ll  do.  Will  you  let  me  go  ? ” 

But  by  that  time  I was  crying  so  hard  I wasn’t  fit 
to  be  seen  in  the  streets.  Mr„  Bailey  was  frightened, 
and  asked  if  he  shouldn’t  go  for  some  peppermint. 

Yes,  go,”  said  I ; “’twill  be  better  than  peppermint 
to  get  you  out  of  my  sight.” 

That  was  just  the  way  I talked;  but  I’ll  leave  it  to 
Judith  if  I haven’t  always  been  as  respectful  to  him 
before  as  if  he  was  the  president.  Now,  I was  so  ex- 
asperated I didn’t  care  what  I said. 

It  was  the  longest  while  before  the  man  would  be- 


248 


THE  DO  CTO  RE  DAUGHTER, 


lieve  I was  telling  the  truth,  and  wasn’t  in  love  with 
him.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a thing?  Say,  did 
you  ever?  It  all  came  of  my  going  to  Judith’s  so 
much,  and  his  being  such  a fool ! 

‘‘  I never  was  in  love  with  any  one  in  my  life,”  said 
I.  ‘‘My  father  would  think  it  very  improper  for  a girl 
of  my  age.  And  certainly  I don’t  care  any  more  about 
you  than  I do  about  a toad.” 

I believe  I was  crazy,  or  I shouldn’t  have  said  that. 
I thought  he  looked  mortified  then,  though  I doubt  if 
it’s  a possible  thing.  He  told  me  he  felt  relieved  of  a 
great  burden,  and  I told  him  I was  sorry  he  had  troubled 
himself  so  much. 

He  wanted  me  to  promise  I wouldn’t  mention  what 
he  had  said  ; but  I wouldn’t  promise  not  to  tell  my 
father,  though  I hadn’t  any  idea  I really  should  tell 
him. 

It  seemed  as  if  I should  die  of  shame  all  the  way 
home,  going  by  people’s  windows ; but  I kept  saying 
over  to  myself,  “Who  ever  heard  of  anybody’s  dying 
in  one  day?” 

“Why,”  said  my  fiither,  coming  along  to  the  door 
with  open  arms,  “ what  ails  my  yellow-haired  little 
girl?” 

And  I forgot  how  hungry  he  must  be,  and  put  my 
head  on  his  shoulder,  and  told  him  the  whole  thing. 
I never  saw  him  so  angry  before.  He  said  it  was  “un- 
paralleled impudence,”  and  Mr,  Bailey  was  a “scatter- 
wit,”  and  a “swell-head.” 

“ O,  fiither,”  said  I,  “ it  makes  me  feel  as  mean  as  that 
poem  Judith  and  I wrote  about  Pauline.  I wouldn’t 
have  Pauline  know  this  for  anything.  She  would  say, 


WORSE  THAN  NONE, 


249 


as  she  did  then,  that  I have  ‘no  delicacy  and  no  dis- 
cretion.’ She’d  think  I must  have  done  something 
very  improper.  Have  I,  papa?  Ought  I to  have  staid 
away  from  Judith’s,  just  because  he  was  there?” 

“No,”  said  he,  setting  his  teeth  together;  “the  out- 
rageous ninny!” 

“And,  papa,  you  don’t  think  any  worse  of  me  now 
than  you  did  before?  I’m  so  afraid  of  not  being 
respectable,  you  know.” 

“Any  worse  of  you,  darling?  No:  you’re  just  what 
a child  should  be,  artless  and  unconscious ; and  that 
jackanapes  of  a Bailey  ought  to  pay  dearly  for  putting 
such  ideas  in  your  head.” 

“Papa,  you  keep  calling  him  names  — do  you  know 
it?” 

“Yes,  yes,  so  I do;  and  it’s  very  undignified.  But 
the  idea  of  my  little  giiTs  being  so  insulted  brings  out 
the  old  Adam ! I’m  glad  you’ve  told  me,  though. 
You’ve  no  mother  to  talk  with,  and  I hope,  little  Mar- 
ian, you’ll  always  come  to  papa.  Young  creatures, 
like  you,  mustn’t  try  to  bear  their  little  troubles  alone.” 

“You  don’t  call  this  a little  trouble,  papa?  O,  you 
can’t  mean  so  1 ” 

Then  my  father  laughed. 

“ See  here,  Marian ; you  and  I are  both  foolish  to 
take  it  so  seriously.  It  is  really  a capital  joke.  I’ve 
heard  of  a man’s  asking  a woman  to  love  him,  — that’s 
a common  thing,  — but  never  in  my  life  before  of  a 
man’s  asking  a woman  not  to  love  him ! This  Bailey 
is  an  original  genius;  he  has  made  you  what  I should 
call  an  anti-ofier.” 

“O,  papa,  I wouldn’t  have  Judith  know  it  for  the 
world ! ” 


250 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


‘‘  What,  your  intimate  friend  ? I should  think  you 
would  wish  to  put  her  on  her  guard,  — she  may  have 
to  go  through  the  same  ordeal  herself.” 

“ Why,  father,  you  forget  she’s  engaged ! I don’t 
want  her  to  know;  for  I — I’m  afraid  she’ll  look  down 
on  me,  as  very  inferior.  She’s  only  eight  months  older 
than  I,  and  engaged  to  be  married ; and  here  am  I, 
papa  — I’ve  not  only  never  had  an  offer,  but  I’ve  just 
had  what’s  a great  deal  worse  than  none!''"* 

“ Marian,  I’d  like  to  box  your  ears.” 

‘‘  I know  it  sounds  silly,  papa,  and  I’m  talking  rattle- 
ty-bang;  but  there’s  honest  truth  in  it,  too.  You 
wouldn’t  believe  it  sets  Judith  up  with  all  the  girls 
to  be  engaged  younger  than  the  rest,  — but  it  does. 
O,  you  can’t  understand  girls’  foolishness,  flither!” 

“ I’ll  try  to,  dear,  for  your  sake,”  said  he,  in  a very 
different  tone,  and  kissing  me  tenderly.  “Poor  mother- 
less child  ! ” His  voice  always  trembles  when  he  says 
that,  and  now  it  broke  down  completely.  “Tell  me, 
do  young  ladies  count  their  lovers,  and  boast  of  them, 
as  Indians  do  of  scalps?” 

“Why,  father,  what  an  idea!” 

“ I happened  to  think  of  it,  because  I overheard  a 
frizzly-headed  girl,  the  other  day,  saying  to  another 
girl,  ‘ How  many  offers  have  you  had  ? I’ve  had  nine ! ’ 
Perhaps  she  carries  them  round,  signed  and  sealed, 
strung  on  a chain,  dangling  from  her  neck;  what  do 
you  suppose  ? ” 

“Father,  where  did  that  girl  live?” 

“At  Poonoosac.” 

“Well,  I don’t  believe  there’s  a girl  at  Quinnebasset 
that  would  have  talked  so,  unless  it’s  Naomi  Giddings. 


WORSE  THAN  NONE, 


251 


Still  they  would  all  feel  dreadfully  if  they  never,  never 
should  have  offers,  you  know,  and  should  live  to  be  as 
much  as  thirty  years  old ! ” 

“Ah!  But,  Marian,  one  of  the  most  charming 
women  I ever  knew  lived  to  the  great  age  of  forty, 
and  boasted  that  she  had  never  had  a lover.  She 
might  have  had  dozens,  but  didn’t  see  any  one  she 
fancied,  and  was  so  high-minded  and  delicate,  that  she 
always  took  care  to  prevent  her  gentleman  friends  from 
coming  to  the  point ; and  they  understood  her,  and 
blessed  her  for  it  in  their  hearts.” 

“ She  couldn’t  have  stopped  them  if  they’d  been  like 
Mr.  Bailey.” 

“I  suppose  not,  dear.  Well,  as  I was  saying,  per- 
haps times  have  changed  ; but  in  my  day,  this  aforesaid 
lady  was  greatly  respected.  And  for  my  part  I think 
better  of  her  this  minute  than  I do  of  the  little  witch 
who  carries  nine  offers  dangling  from  her  watch-chain. 
If  that  girl  ever  marries,  it  will  be  a crooked  stick. 
All  this  flirting  comes  of  empty  brains,  Marian,  empty 
brains.  If  I ever  catch  you  at  it,  I shall  set  you  to 
washing  the  barn  floor.” 

“You  needn’t  be  alarmed,  papa;  I don’t  know  how 
to  flirt.  But  I do  know  how  to  make  cream  toast,  and 
I’ll  have  some  ready  before  you  starve.” 

Then  I ran  oflf,  ever  so  light-hearted,  and  opened  a 
can  of  peaches  to  celebrate  my  anti-offer.  My  father 
thinks  I’m  just  as  respectable  as  ever,  and  I hope  you 
do,  too.  Miss  Tottenham ; but  I haven’t  got  used  to  it 
yet,  and  don’t  know  what  I think  myself. 


252 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


AUNT  HINSDALE  PUZZLED. 


Miss  Tottenham. 


March  18. 

LONG  letter  from  Keller.  He  says  it’s  ‘‘reg- 
there.  After  the  last  storm 
^ the  snow  was  so  deep  in  some  places  that  the 
horses  couldn’t  walk,  and  had  to  be  lashed  on  to  the 
sleds  like  sacks  of  meal,  and  the  men  hauled  them 
throuo-h  with  their  show-shoes  on.  ‘‘Turn  about  is 


fair  play,”  says  Keller. 

Don’t  I wish  I was  a boy,  and  could  go  “ gumming  ” 
with  him  and  Silas  ? Only  it  doesn’t  seem  proper  to 
do  it  Sundays.  If  a tree  is  too  high  to  climb,  they  cut 
it  down  without  mercy;  or  sometimes  they  use  long 
poles  with  pieces  of  iron  stuck  in  the  end,  to  scrape  off 
the  gum,  while  they  stand  under  the  trees  and  catch  it 
as  it  falls. 

Silas  has  been  swamping,  that  is,  cutting  a road 
through  the  woods  for  the  men.  He  is  as  strong  as 
Samson;  but  I know  Judith  would  like  it  better  if  he 
would  study  law.  She  says  people  in  Boston  look 
down  on  farmers.  I suppose  “people  in  Boston” 
means  Fordyce  Bailey.  Now  I’d  as  lief  Keller  would 
be  a farmer  as  anything  else,  if  he’d  only  stay  so.  But 


AUNT  HINSDALE  PUZZLED. 


253 


you  might  as  well  think  of  a mocking-bird’s  keeping  to 
one  tune.  He  says  Lowell  is  right:  ‘‘No  man  is  born 
into  the  world  but  his  work  is  born  with  him,”  and  he 
thinks  (just  this  minute)  it’s  his  business  to  be  a lum- 
berman ; only  he  almost  wishes  he  were  chopping  or 
scaling,  instead  of  tending  sled  ! The  work  is  hard,  for 
he  has  to  help  oxen  pull  the  logs  on  to  the  sled  side- 
wise, for  other  oxen  to  haul,  and  sometimes  the  logs 
strike  out  and  hit  him ; and  once  he  got  such  a punch 
in  the  side  that  he  “ came  within  three  fourths  of  an 
inch  of  fainting.”  But  this  he  wrote  on  a private  slip, 
marked  “confidential,”  and  added, — 

“Tell  Jude  she  ought  to  write  Si.  He  doesn’t  say 
anything,  but  he’s  got  the  blues,  I know.  She  ought 
to  write  every  week;  length  no  objection.  By  the 
way,  I mistrust  Si  doesn’t  like  Bailey’s  boarding  there. 
Bailey’s  a donkey.  I’ve  set  off  the  Quinnebasset  girls 
to  him,  told  him  they  were  easy  to  fill  in  love;  and  he 
took  in  the  bait  like  a hornpout,  and  is  half  scared  out 
of  his  wits.  Don’t  let  the  girls  know;  this  was  a great 
joke,  but  they  might  not  see  it.  I wouldn’t  have 
Marie  get  hold  of  it ; she  thinks  I’m  awful,  any  way.” 

There,  Miss  Tottenham,  now  you  perceive  the  origin 
of  that  scene  in  the  graveyard.  I wish  my  father  could 
know. 

But  the  postscript  of  that  confidential  slip  was  so 
precious,  it  left  a warm  feeling  at  my  heart  for  hours. 

“Good  by,  blessed  old  Molly.  I’m  a bad  lot;  but 
when  I forget  what  you  did  for  me  a-  year  ago  last 
winter,  my  memory  will  be  rather  shrivelled  up.  It 
isn’t  every  girl  would  borrow  money  out  of  her  wed- 
ding gown  to  help  a reprobate  like  me.  You’re  a reg- 


254 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


ular  little  pickle,  and  that’s  a fact.  I’ve  got  a plan  in 
my  head  to  talk  over  with  Bob,  that  will  bring  you 
back  every  penny.  Glad  father  didn’t  hear  of  that 
scrape.  You’re  as  deep  as  Jacob’s  well,  and  I’m  not 
afraid  of  your  telling.  Queer,  when  you  used  to  be 
such  a case  for  letting  things  slip  off  the  end  of  your 
tongue.” 

You  see  by  this.  Miss  Tottenham,  that  I gave  Keller 
some  of  my  own  money  to  get  him  out  of  James 
Works’s  clutches.  Since  Keller  himself  mentioned  it 
to  Pauline,  I don’t  mind  if  you  know  it.  He  would 
have  gone  to  sea  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  me,  and  I’ve 
always  felt  so  thankful  for  dear  mother’s  sake,  that  I 
had  the  power  to  keep  him  at  home.  What  if  I did 
“ take  it  out  of  my  wedding  gown  ” ! I don’t  see  what 
girls  with  left-handed  offers  want  of  wedding  gowns ! 
Of  course  Keller  can’t  return  the  money,  and  I never 
expected  he  would. 

I haven’t  seen  Mr.  Bailey  yet.  Judith  thought  it 
strange  I didn’t  go  last  night  to  recite  iny  astronomy 
lesson.  Guess  she’d  have  thought  it  stranger  yet  if 
she’d  known  why  I didn’t ! My  father’s  going  with  me 
next  Thursday  evening,  and  then  going  after  rne.  By 
that  means  I shall  manage  to  appear  respectable;  and 
after  a while  I shan’t  feel  as  I do  now  about  meeting 
the  lady-killing  Fordyce.  Tliank  Heaven,  I have  a 
father  to  take  care  of  me.  He  is  getting  to  be  father 
and  mother  too. 

March  20.  I’ve  done  something  dreadful.  My  self- 
esteem is  all  gone.  I feel  a wrinkle  coming  in  my  fore- 
head. Last  night  we  had  what  I call  a severe  attack 
of  company,  and  I was  worried  out  of  my  senses ; that 


AUNT  HINSDALE  PUZZLED. 


255 


was  the  beorinninsf  of  it.  Uncle  and  aunt  Hinsdale,  and 
three  cousins  and  cousinesses,  to  tea,  and  the  blanc- 
mange ran  like  porridge,  and  the  cake  had  collapsed 
in  the  middle.  Then,  after  tea,  Mrs.  Page  to  consult 
my  father  about  some  new  developments  in  her  liver. 
She  had  just  sighed  herself  out  of  the  house,  and  I 
was  having  a chat  in  the  comer  with  uncle  Charles, 
when  aunt  Marian  came  along  and  sat  down  beside  us. 
I enjoy  uncle  Charles  when  I can  get  him  alone; 
and  many  is  the  good  talk  we’ve  had  about 
mother.  I can  say  things  to  him  I can’t  say  to  my 
father  for  fear  of  calling  up  that  look  of  undying 
sorrow.  Uncle  Charles  is  my  uncle-confessor,  and 
listens  to  all  my  wicked  feelings,  and  leaves  me  soothed 
and  happy.  He  is  full  of  the  love  of  Christ,  and  just  the 
best  preacher  and  dearest  man ; but  auntie  never  ought 
to  have  been  his  wife.  Aunt  Filura  says  so  too.  How 
does  that  woman  contrive  to  make  you  feel  so  uncom- 
fortable ? She  looks  as  if  she  considered  you  to  blame 
about  something,  and  you  get  to  wondering  what  it  is, 
or  I do,  till  I forget  the  very  thing  I was  going  to  say. 

She  set  the  heel  of  her  stocking,  and  then  asked  me 
if  I made  any  oilnut  pickles  last  summer.  As  if  I 
could  remember  to  watch  the  trees  all  the  time  ! The 
next  question  was,  “ What  luck  with  the  soft  soa])  ? ” 

I never  should  have  thought  of  making  it  if  it  hadn’t 
been  for  her.  Mamma  never  made  any;  but,  to  ])Iease 
aunt  Hinsdale,  I had  Mrs.  Nason  set  uj:)  what  you  call 
a leach-barrel  \^eek  before  last. 

“Auntie,”  said  I,  “the  soap  wouldn’t  come,  and  Mrs. 
Nason  set  it  out  in  the  shed,  where  the  sun  shines  part 
of  the  day,  hoping  the  ley  would  eat  the  grease ; but 


256 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


the  ley  hadn’t  force  enough,  and  a dog  came  along  and 
ate  the  grease.  I told  Mrs.  Nason  I was  glad;  the 
grease  was  eaten,  and  wasn’t'  that  all  she  wanted  ? ” 

Aunt  Hinsdale  didn’t  see  any  joke  in  such  a waste  of 
property ; she  never  does  see  jokes ; and  uncle  Charles 
has  to  laugh  for  both  of  them.  He  shook  his  sides 
over  my  soap,  and  I was  just  getting  so  I could 
meet  auntie’s  eyes  without  flinching,  when  suddenly 
she  went  along  to  the  centre-table,  to  my  writing-desk, 
and  said  she, — 

This  is  the  place  where  you  keep  your  little  fortune 
— is  it,  Marian  ? ” 

She  did  not  mean  any  harm ; but  since  I have  spent 
two  hundred  dollars  of  that  money,  I don’t  like  to  hear 
about  my  ‘Mittle  fortune.”  My  face  flamed,  and  of 
course  everybody  stopped  talking  and  looked  straight 
at  me.  And  upon  that,  auntie  added,  as  an  after- 
thought, — 

“ Please  let  me  look  at  the  secret  drawer.  Where 
do  you  touch  the  spring?  ” 

I knew  then  it  was  all  over  with  me.  It  v^asn’t  two 
seconds  before  she  had. those  government  bonds  in  her 
lap,  and  was  counting  them. 

“ One,  two,  three.  Why,  where  are  the  others  ? ” 

It  was  of  no  use  to  pretend  not  to  hear,  for  auntie 
never  lets  anybody  off. 

“I  had  a use  for  them,”  said  I in  a low  voice,  with 
the  room  so  still  you  could  have  heard  a pin  drop. 

My  father  looked  amazed,  but  said  nothing.  I knew 
he  would  wait  till  everybody  was  gone  before  asking 
questions ; and  aunt  Hinsdale  was  too  well  bred  to 
pursue  the  subject,  though  her  eyes  never  stopped 


AUNT  HINSDALE  PUZZLED, 


257 


following  me  with  an  inquiring  gaze,  as  much  as  to 
say,  — 

“ Child,  child,  what  have  you  done  with  that 
money  ? ” 

She  gave  it  to  me  out  and  out,  for  my  unfortunate 
name,  and  I had  a perfect  right  to  spend  it  as  I 
chose;  still  it’s  very  natural  she  should  feel  an  interest. 
A girl  of  seventeen  isn’t  supposed  to  have  any  sense, 
and  perhaps  she  thinks  I used  the  bonds  for  curl- 
papers. 

“ Marian,”  said  she,  in  the  entry,  — and  Sarah  heard 
her,  too,  — “with  all  your  faults  I always  gave 
you  credit  for  being  open-hearted.  I do  hope  you  are 
not  growing  up  secretive ; that’s  so  disagreeable.” 

I’d  like  to  know  who  is  more  secretive  than  her 
Sarah ! 

I dreaded  to  have  the  front  door  close,  for  my  father 
went  right  to  poking  the  fire,  and  I knew  something 
was  coming. 

“Well,  Marian,  what  does  this  mehn?” 

“O,  papa,  please  don’t  ask  me.  It  was  long,  long 
ago  I spent  that  money.  I couldn’t  go  to  you  for  ad- 
vice. ’Twas  right,  and  I’ve  never  been  sorry,  papa; 
but,  any  way,  I had  to  do  it ; and  please  don’t  ask  me.” 

My  father  looked  me  right  in  the  eye,  and  said 
he,  — 

“For  shame  on  Keller  ! ” 

“ Why,  how  did  you  know  that  ? ” 

I said  it  before  I thought.  I took  it  for  granted  he 
knew  the  whole  thing.  It  was  too  late  then  to  take  it 
back.  I never  said  another  word,  but  I had  the  same 
as  told  him  the  money  had  gone  to  pay  Keller’s  debts. 
17 


258 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


O,  Miss  Tottenham,  that  boy  trusts  me  so  entirely,  and 
now  I have  betrayed  him ! 

March  21.  Horrible!  Horrible!  Keller  has  met 
with  a serious  accident!  As  he  was  loading  a sled, 
one  of  the  logs  hit  him  a blow  which  threw  him  over 
and  broke  his  leg.  The  pain  was  so  great,  that  he  did 
not  have  his  senses  for  some  time.  They  laid  him  on 
a sled,  and  took  him  down  to  Monson,  to  a doctor,  to 
have  the  bones  set;  but  he  is  in  a bad  condition.  It  is 
worse  than  a common  broken  leg;  it  is  a compound 
fracture.  Silas  Hackett  wrote  the  letter,  and  sent  a 
man  with  it  who  could  come  faster  than  the  stage.  Of 
course  my  father  will  go  up  to  Monson  at  once ; and 
what  do  you  think  ? Keller  sends  for  me  to  go  too ! 
Kot  Pauline,  but  me.  Silas  says  he  won’t  go  to  sleep 
till  I get  there.  Poor  old  darling!  I wish  I could 
take  him  in  my  arms  and  rock  him!  Pauline  won- 
dered if  there  wasn’t  some  mistake  in  the  letter,  and  I 
know  her  husband  thinks  Keller  is  out  of  his  senses,  or 
he  couldn’t  have  asked  for  me  instead  of  Pauline.  But 
Silas  says  his  head  is  ‘‘level,”  thank  you,  sir;  and 
I’m  going.  The  travelling  is  the  very  worst;  but  what 
of  that  ? 

My  father  will  come  back  and  leave  me  up  there  with 
Keller.  He,  and  Benjie,  and  Tom  will  go  to  Pauline’s 
for  their  meals.  How  long  I shall  stay  will  depend 
upon  how  long  I’m  needed.  I shall  take  you  with  me 
in  my  carpet-bag.  Miss  Tottenham,  for  I find  you’re 
good  for  nervousness. 


UP  COUNTRY, 


259 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


UP  COUNTRY. 


Miss  Tottenham, 

March  23. 

?)E  got  here  alive,  though  there  was  one  time 
when  it  didn’t  seem  possible.  Since  the 
great  storm  the  snow  is  so  hard  and  deep 
that  my  father  and  Mr.  Whiting  had  to  keep  getting  out 
and  shovelling  ahead  of  us  with  a snow  shovel,  and 
then  lifting  the  runners  of  the  pung  over  the  drifts. 
Who  ever  heard  the  like  the  last  of  March  ? 

I supposed  Monson  would  seem  hack-woodsy ; but 
it  doesn’t ; and  the  hotel  is  very  respectable.  Keller  is 
in  a small  room  up  stairs,  and  Silas  Hackett  was  bath- 
ing his  poor,  hot  face.  How  sick  he  looks ! He  was 
glad  enough  to  see  my  father ; but  when  I went  up  to 
him  he  drew  my  face  down  to  his,  and  kissed  it,  and 
wet  it  with  tears. 

“ How  queer  you  looked  when  you  came  in ! ” said 
he ; “just  as  if  you  were  looking  into  somebody’s  grave, 
and  saying,  ‘ Poor  fellow ! I wish  I could  have  seen 
him  before  he  died.’  ” 

“ But  you  are  not  dead,  little  dear,  or  anywhere  near 
it,”  said  I,  though  my  heart  ached  clear  up  to  my 
throat ; for  it  was  plain  to  be  seen,  by  the  way  Silas 


260  the  doctors s daughter, 

tucked  down  the  sheet  under  his  chin,  that  he  was  a 
very  sick  boy;  also  by  the  business  look  on  my  father’s 
face  as  he  said  I might  leave  the  room,  he  was  going  to 
examine  the  wound. 

“ Let  her  stay,”  whispered  Keller.  ‘‘If  there’s  going 
to  be  anything  more  done  to  me,  I want  her  here. 
Say,  Molly:  you  came  on  purpose  to  stay  by  me  — 
didn’t  you  ?” 

I believe  the  other  physician  was  not  at  fault;  but 
there  was  something  wrong  about  the  setting  of  the 
bones,  and  it  had  to  be  all  done  over  again.  I thought 
I could  not  stay  and  see  that  sight.  Things  began  to 
whirl  round  and  grow  dark  ; but  there  was  the  dear  boy 
appealing  to  me  with  such  a look  in  his  eyes ! and  how 
could  I refuse  ? 

“If  I have  to  go  through  it  again,  I want  women 
folks  this  time.  I knew  Pauline  would  run  ; but  you’re 
not  tender-hearted  like  her;  I thought  you  wouldn’t  be 
afraid.” 

I caught  hold  of  the  bed-post,  and  said  I,  “ Afraid  of 
what?  I’ll  stay  and  see  you  cut  up  into  inch  pieces, 
Keller  Prescott,  if  you  want  me  to.” 

That  seemed  to  gratify  him  very  much;  so  I made  a 
few  more  cold-blooded  remarks,  and  then  went  off  and 
sat  on  the  top  stair^  waiting  for  things  to  stop  whirling. 
After  a while  Silas  came  to  me,  and  said  he, — 

“You’ll  do  no  such  thing.  He’ll  be  under  the  influ- 
ence of  ether,  and  won’t  know  whether  you’re  there  or 
not.” 

Then  my  father  came,  and  advised  me  to  go  to  my 
room  and  rest.  But  I told  him  I had  given  Keller  my 
word,  and  I must  stay  and  hold  the  sponge  to  his  mouth ; 


UP  COUNTRT. 


261 


I certainly  wouldn’t  faint  away.  My  father  shook  his 
head,  but  afterwards  gave  a half  consent.  I knew  all 
the  time  he  would  be  ashamed  of  me  if  I drew  back. 

It  is  all  over  now,  and  I am  trying  to  drive  it  out  of 
my  mind.  I am  so  glad  I staid  ! It  was  a little  atone- 
ment for  betraying  the  poor  boy’s  confidence,  and  tell- 
ing about  the  debt  to  Thankful  Works.  I can’t  confess 
to  him  yet ; but  every  time  he  presses  my  hand  for 
gratitude,  a pang  goes  through  my  conscience. 

March  26.  Keller  is  said  to  be  doing  well,  and  my 
father  and  Silas  have  both  gone  ; they  could  neither  of 
them  stay  longer.  It  was  not  safe  to  leave  me  alone  with 
such  a sick  boy,  and  a Mrs.  Vennebal,  from  Greenfield, 
was  engaged  as  a regular  nurse.  But  just  as  my  father 
was  starting  away,  a woman  came  up  stairs,  puffing 
like  a boiling  hasty  pudding.  It  was  Thankful  Works, 
the  good  soul.  The  pung  she  came  in  had  broken 
down,  and  she  had  walked  a mile  through  the  drifts. 
Her  husband,  who  is  at  work  in  the  woods,  sent  word 
to  her  that  Keller  was  badly  hurt,  and  not  expected  to 
live,  and  she  had  left  her  house  in  care  of  “his”  oldest 
daughter,  and  hired  a man  to  bring  her  all  this  distance. 
Keller  was  glad  to  see  her.  Her  crying  seems  to 
amuse  him,  and  he  says  the  time  is  shorter  the  more 
people  you  divide  it  among.  But  for  my  part  I had 
hard  work  to  keep  up  my  spirits  before,  and  don’t  know 
what  I shall  do  now.  James  Works  won’t  like  this 
when  he  hears  of  it.  Mrs.  Vennebal  wouldn’t  go,  or 
at  any  rate  didn’t ; and  here  is  Keller  with  two  nurses 
to  make  him  a double  allowance  of  gruel.  I don’t  see 
but  I may  as  well  go  visiting  up  to  camp.  Silas  prom- 
ised to  come  for  me  if  the  roads  grew  better. 


262 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


Thankful  says,  if  Keller  never  should  walk  again,  it 
wouldn’t  surprise  her.  But  nothing  dreadful  ever  would 
surprise  her.  I won’t  lisen  to  what  she  says. 

Last  evening  I called  her  to  the  door  to  see  Northern 
Lights  — the  most  magnificent  sight.  The  whole  sky 
was  quivering  with  rosy  lightning,  as  if  the  heavens 
were  uttering  speech  in  words  of  fire. 

“ Thankful,”  said  I,  “ did  you  ever  see  anything  so 
glorious  ? ” 

She  was  just  inside  the  entry,  and  I could  not  make 
her  cross  the  threshold. 

“It’s  anything  but  a handsome  sight  to  me,”  she 
groaned. 

“ Why,  Thankful,  what  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“I  mean  something  awful  is  going  to  happen.  The 
sky  don’t  look  that  way  for  nothing.” 

I told  her  that  reminded  me  of  the  Norsemen’s  fancy, 
that  the  Aurora  was  a sort  of  shadow-picture  of  their 
war-maidens  fighting  up  in  heaven. 

“ More  likely  it  foretells  fighting  on  earth,”  said  she, 
“ or  what’s  worse.  The  last  time  I saw  it  so  red  was 
one  night  when  Josiah  was  alive  and  drunk.  He  made 
me  get  out  of  bed  and  hurrah  for  McClellan.  I knew, 
the  moment  I looked  out,  there  was  going  to  be  a 
battle;  and,  sure  enough,  we  had  news  of  one  next 
day.” 

“ Thankful,”  said  I,  changing  the  subject,  “I’m  glad 
your  new  husband  doesn’t  drink.  You  must  be  a hap- 
pier woman  than  you  used  to  be.” 

“Well,  yes,”  said  she,  hiding  behind  her  spectacles, 
with  that  queer  look  of  hers.  “All  men  have  their 
faults;  if  ’tisn’t  one  thing,  it’s  another.  You  may  de- 


UP  COUNTRY, 


263 


J3end  there  was  no  fun  for  me  in  Josiah’s  day,  getting 
up  cold  nights  to  hurrah  for  McClellan;  still,  I will 
say  this  for  him : there  never  was  a kinder  man  than 
what  Josiah  was  when  he  was  himself — a good,  lib- 
eral, open-hearted  soul,  not  one  of  those  kind  that’s  stren- 
oo-ous  about  the  way  you  lay  out  every  red  cent.” 

She  says  a great  deal  lately  about  Josiah’s  kindness.  I 
never  heard  her  mention  it  before. 

March  28.  Thankful’s  gloomy  fears  have  been  real- 
ized, and  I hope  this  is  an  end  of  it.  James  appeared 
yesterday  from  Tomhegan,  and  Mrs.  Vennebal  says  she 
overheard  him  telling  his  wife  he  ‘‘  came  for  the  express 
purpose  of  blowing  of  her  up.  She  might  stay  now  till 
she  could  get  back  again ; but  what  did  she  come  for 
in  such  going  as  this?  She’d  cost  a man  an  indepen- 
dent fortune  at>this  rate.” 

I told  Keller  I should  suppose  a woman  with  three 
thousand  dollars  of  her  own  could  do  as  she  liked  with 
it;  but  he  says  her  money  has  all  gone  to  buy  land, 
and  now  she  isn’t  worth  the  least  thing.  I think  mar- 
riage is  dreadful. 

March  30.  Keller  was  very  feverish  last  night,  and 
Thankful  would  have  sent  for  my  father,  but  Mrs.  Ven- 
nebal advised  waiting  till  morning;  and  now  he  is 
better.  I could  not  sleep  for  fright.  I thought  Keller 
was  going  to  die ; and  every  time  I prayed  he  might 
get  well,  I kept  thinking  what  aunt  Filura  said,  when 
we  were  so  anxious  about  mother — “Don’t  pray  too 
hard,  Mary  Ann,  for  how  do  you  know  her  getting  well 
would  prove  for  the  best  ? And  if  God  should  grant  what 
isn’t  really  for  the  best,  because  of  your  importunity,  it 
would  not  be  a blessing,  but  a curse.  I find,”  said  she, 


264 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


“ it  is  always  wisest  to  add,  ‘ Thy  will  be  done,’  and  then 
I feel  safe.”  I suppose  auntie  doesn’t  know  those  are 
the  four  hardest  words  in  the  English  language. 

A blind  man  came  along  yesterday,  peddling  original 
poetry,  and  it  seemed  to  interest  Eeller.  Here  is  a 
little  of  it : — 

‘‘I  was  made  blind,  not  by  God’s  will, 

But  by  a turbine  water-wheel ! 

In  eighteen  hundred  fifty-three 
I was  made  blind,  and  cannot  see  ! ” 

Keller  says  that  is  just  his  case.  He  was  made  lame, 
not  by  God’s  will,  but  by  a plaguy  old  pine  tree.  Now 
I’m  sure  this  is  not  the  way  to  talk,  and  I have  tried  hard 
to  convince  him  that  all  the  events  we  call  accidents  are 
links  in  a great  chain;  and  God  never  lets  go  the  chain, 
any  more  than  he  lets  a planet  fly  off  into  space.  Uncle 
Hinsdale  says  it’s  a pity  for  us  to  mourn  over  mistakes, 
just  as  if  our  heavenly  Father  didn’t  know  they  must 
certainly  happen,  and  hadn’t  left  a margin  for  them  in 
his  plan  of  the  world.  I talk  as  pious,  dear  me  ! you’d 
think  I’d  been  through  the  siege  of  St.  Bartholomew. 
I shouldn’t  be  patient  if  I were  in  Keller’s  place ; but 
I know  how  he  ought  to  feel ; O,  certainly! 

Keller,”  said  I,  “ don’t  you  remember  how  you  and  I 
used  to  sit  Sunday  evenings,  with  mother  between  us, 
on  the  big  sofa,  and  hear  her  say  that  every  single  thing 
tliat  comes  to  us,  whether  joy  or  sorrow,  is  sent  in  love, 
and  if  we  accept  it  like  little  children,  it  is  sure  to  do 
us  good  ? ” 

“ H’m  ! I could  bear  that  kind  of  talk  from  an 
angel  like  mother;  but  your  cheeks  are  a little  too  red. 


UP  COUNTRY. 


265 


Molly,  and  you’re  a little  too  steady  on  your  pins  to 
preach  to  a fellow  that’s  down.  Wait  till  you’re  lame 
for  life  yourself,  and  then  see  what  you’ll  say.’^ 

“Nonsense  about  being  lame  for  life,”  said  I.  “I 
don’t  believe  a word  of  it.  It’s  one  of  Thankful’s  whim- 
sies, and  she’s  a woman  that’s  afraid  of  red  North- 
ern Lights.” 

“But,  Molly,  if  I’m  going  to  get  over  it,  why  didn’t 
father  say  so  ? There’s  one  dead  sure  thing  — I shall  be 
bobbing  round  on  crutches  all  summer.  Won’t  it  be 
nuts  for  Marie  Smith  ? She  always  made  fun  of  me  on 
the  sly.” 

Then  he  began  to  throw  pillows  and  towels  about 
at  such  a rate  that  I had  to  comb  his  hair  to  compose 
him.  I don’t  know  why  he  should  talk  so  of  dear  Marie 
Smith.  If  he  had  said  it  of  any  of  the  other  girls  I 
should  not  have  wondered  so  much ; though  there  is 
not  one  that  wouldn’t  like  him  all  the  better  for  being 
in  trouble,  and  so  I assured  him.  Little  he  knows  how 
dear  he  has  grown  to  me.  I shan’t  say  any  more  to 
him  about  resignation,  though,  for  I find  it  always  sets 
him  to  throwing  pillows. 

April  5.  Silas  came  for  me  to  go  up  to  camp,  and  I 
supposed  Keller  was  willing  to  spare  me  ; but  he  drew 
his  face  down  in  a minute,  and  began  to  look  out  of  the 
window. 

“ It  is  a very  backward  spring,”  said  he.  “I  did  hope 
I should  live  to  see  the  dandelions ; but  it  doesn’t  seem 
much  like  it  now.” 

I ran  out  of  the  room,  for  I couldn’t  bear  that,  and 
came  back  with  some  jelly,  just  as  if  I had  gone  for  it 
on  purpose. 


266 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


“ Keller,”  said  I,  “ I’m  not  going  up  to  camp  ” 

‘‘O,  you’d  better.  You  may  never  have  so  good  a 
chance  again.” 

“ I’ll  never  have  so  good  a chance  to  break  my  neck. 
The  travelling  is  just  awful;  now,  Silas,  don’t  you 
pretend  it  isn’t.  I’ll  make  you  both  tell  me  all  about 
camp-life,  and  that  will  do  just  as  well,  and  better.” 

Silas  said  to  me,  privately,  that  he  knew  Keller  had 
“hypo;”  I ought  to  go,  and  not  mind  him.  Yes,  I 
presume  he  has  hypo ; but  that’s  no  reason  why  I should 
leave  him  with  Thankful,  to  hear  that  mournful  “North 
Wind.”  It  took  an  uncommonly  nice  supper  last  night, 
and  a game  of  backgammon,  to  drive  that  chant  out  of 
his  head. 

When  Silas  found  I wouldn’t  go,  he  staid  two  hours 
for  company,  and  we  talked  the  poor  boy  into  spirits 
again.  He  gave  up  the  idea  of  dying,  and  thought  he 
should  like  some  beans,  such  as  they  cook  at  camp  in 
“ bean-holes.” 

“As  if  they  are  any  better  than  what  you  get  at 
home ! ” said  I. 

That  made  him  snap  his  fingers,  and  tell  a long  story 
about  the  cook  in  a checked  apron  with  a bib  to  it. 

“ Clean  as  a whistle.  Goes  at  it  as  if  he  knew  how. 
None  of  your  little  messes.  He  mixes  biscuits  in  a 
pan  as  big  as  a tub,  bakes  ’em  before  the  fire,  and  they 
come  out  regular  whoppers.  Tell  you  what,  Molly  : 
you  ought  to  see  us  on  the  deacon’s  seat,  watching  ’em 
bake.” 

“ What  is  the  deacon’s  seat  ? ” 

“ The  three-cornered  bench  that  runs  round  the  fire, 
where  the  men  sit  to  warm  their  feet.  Back  of  it  are 


UP  COUNTRY. 


267 


the  bunks,  made  of  cedar  boughs,  and  covered  with 
quilts,  where  you  sleep  with  your  feet  towards  the  fire. 
Molly,  your  education  never’ll  be  finished  till  you  camp 
out.  Now,  you  ought  to  see  that  thorough-shot  boom 
the  men  are  making.” 

Didn’t  I want  to  ? “ What  is  it  ? ” said  I. 

“It’s  a sort  of  Virginia  fence,  like.  They  build  it  on 
the  ice  to  enclose  the  logs,  and  then,  when  the  ice  melts, 
there  it  is,  and  the  logs  are  held  safe.  I suppose  you 
think  the  ice  goes  out  of  the  lake  with  a crash,  as  it 
does  out  of  our  rivers ; but  no  — it  melts,  like  sugar. 
You  look  at  it  some  morning,  and  think  it  is  just  as  it 
has  been  all  winter ; but  it  is  only  the  ghost  of  itself, 
and  before  night  it  has  vamosed  entirely.” 

“Yes;  and  then  the  logs  go  to  the  outlet,”  said  I* 
“ and,  as  they  move  down  river,  men  in  red  shirts  come 
and  pick  them  out  with  cant-dogs.  But  how  are  people 
so  sure  whose  logs  they  are  ? ” 

“ What  a question,  Molly ! Every  lumberman  in 
every  town  along  the  banks  has  a particular  mark  on 
his  logs,  such  as  a cross  or  a pair  of  bellows ; so  of 
course  there  can’t  be  mistakes.” 

“Well,  I’m  glad  you’re  not  a river-driver,  Keller; 
it  would  frighten  me  to  death.” 

“ Pshaw ! women  haven’t  any  pluck,”  said  he.  And 
then  Silas  and  I made  a dash  upon  him,  and  said  he 
needn’t  talk  about  women ; he  was  an  invalid  of  the 
first  water,  and  as  spleeny  as  Mrs.  Page.  We  had  a 
gay  time,  and  got  him  out  of  his  megrims  ; but  Thank- 
ful came  in  and  said  the  blood  was  all  in  his  head,  and 
sent  us  out  of  the  room. 

Silas  didn’t  like  to  go  back  to  camp  without  me,  and 


268 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


I said  I wished  Judith  were  here  to  go  in  my  place, 
never  thinking  but  he  would  say,  So  do  I,  too.”  But 
he  made  no  answer;  just  went  to  counting  the  rings 
in  the  end  of  a maple  stick,  as  if  his  life  depended  on 
finding  out  the  age  of  the  tree.  In  all  the  times  I 
have  seen  him  here,  he  has  not  once  mentioned  her 
name ; and  Keller  says  he  never  speaks  of  her  to  him. 
Keller  says  Si  and  Robert  are  ‘‘the  deep  kind,”  and 
never  talk  of  what  is  next  their  hearts.  Silas,  he  knows, 
is  very  much  attached  to  Judith,  and  has  been  for  years ; 
“ thinks  a great  deal  more  of  her  than  she  deserves.” 


UNJUST  SUSPICIONS. 


269 


/ 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 


UNJUST  SUSPICIONS. 


Miss  Tottenham. 


May  1. 


jX^^jftOME  again.  Robert  came  after  us.  It  was 


he  lay  on  the  straw,  like  Margery  Daw.  Some  of  the 
way  there  was  snow,  but  in  most  places  the  ground 
was  bare,  and  the  runners  grated  so  it  set  your  teeth 
on  edge.  Keller  didn’t  say  much,  but  lay,  with  my 
brown  veil  over  his  face,  looking  up  at  the  sky ; and 
when  Robert  went  into  a house  along  the  road  to  get 
him  a cup  of  tea,  he  burst  forth  all  at  once. 

‘‘Molly,  I tell  you  this  is  a great  lesson.  When  a 
fellow’s  down,  and  can’t  help  himself,  he  has  a good 
chance  tq/hink ; and  IVe  thought  more  within  a month 
than  I ever  did  before  in  my  life.  Anything  new  to 
offer  about  resignation  and  so  forth?  If  so,  preach 
away,  for  I’m  going  to  try  it,  and  see  how  it  works.” 

“O,  Keller,”  said  I,  “I’m  ashamed  that  I ever 
preached  to  you.  You’re  twice  as  patient  as  I am, 
and  have  behaved  like  a lamb  all  the  time,  with  the 
exception  of  firing  pillows.” 


pretty  hard  for  Keller,  but  he  bore  it  better 
than  we  feared.  We  came  in  a pung,  and 


270 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER. 


And  then  I stooped  over  and  kissed  him,  for  he  likes 
to  be  petted  since  he  is  sick. 

“ Patient,  Molly ? Me  patient?  Well,  I like  that! 
But,  you  see,  I shouldn’t  have  gained  anything  by  kick- 
ing against  the  pricks.  Can’t  do  it  very  well  with  a 
lame  leg.  When  a fellow’s  laid  on  the  shelf  for  life  — ” 
“Don’t,  Keller.  You’re  not  laid  on  the  shelf  for  life. 
That’s  all  a mistake.” 

“ How  do  you  know  ? ” 

“ Robert  says  so.” 

“Does  he?  Good  for  Bob!  Well,  wait  and  see 
what  father  thinks.  I shall  know  the  whole  story  the 
moment  I catch  his  eye.  But,  Molly,  if  I do  get  well. 
I’m  going  to  turn  over  a new  leaf.  You  needn’t  tell 
anybody  I said  so,  though.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  to  do  ? ” 

“ Go  to  college.” 

“O,  Keller!  joyful!  Only  I should  think  ’twas 
Epsom  salts  by  the  face  you  make.” 

“ Well,  Molly,  I can  swallow  it  for  father’s  sake.” 

“I  wouldn’t,  Keller;  it  isn’t  really  necessary  for  a 
young  man  to  go  to  college.  Now,  there’s  Robert.” 
“Yes,  I know.  You’re  always  quoting  Bob.  But, 
Marian,  I shouldn’t  study  by  myself,  as  he  does.  He’s 
a natural  digger.  I have  to  be  put  up  to  it,  and  that’s 
why  I ought  to  go  to  college.” 

“ But,  Keller,  you’ve  always  said  you  wanted  to  be  a 
business  man.” 

“ Well,  is  that  any  reason  I shouldn’t  know  any- 
thing? Listen  a minute,  Marian.  If  I should  go  into 
business  now,  I should  fly  right  ofi*  the  handle,  for  I 
haven’t  any  stick-to-it-iveness  at  all.” 


UNJUST  SUSPICIONS. 


271 


I was  very  much  surprised,  for  I never  heard  Keller 
admit  that  before. 

‘‘Yes,  I need  discipline,  Molly;  that’s  a fact;  and 
study  is  what’s  going  to  give  it  to  me.  Father’s  in  the 
right  of  it.  I see  it  now.” 

“ But  you’re  not  fitted  for  college.” 

“Yes,  I am,  or  very  near  it.  All  I need  is  a little 
rub  at  mathematics,  and  father  can  put  me  through 
this  summer  if  he’s  a mind  to.  Hillo ! here  comes 
Bob  with  the  tea.  Wish  I could  pick  that  fellow’s 
brains,  and  steal  some  of  the  knowledge.  He  never’d 
miss  it.” 

It  is  certain  that  Keller  has  been  thinking  hard 
during  this  sickness.  What  if  it  should  be  the  turn- 
ing-point in  his  life  ? 

It  was  so  delightful  to  get  home;  only  I suppose 
there  is  one  face  I shall  always  miss  — always,  always  ! 
I have  longed  for  a good  hugging  from  Benjie,  and  a 
cosy  chat  with  my  father.  The  house  was  fairly  illu- 
minated ; Pauline  and  Judith  were  here  waiting  for 
us;  aunt  Filura  came,  too,  with  her  “face  like  a bene- 
diction,” and  hej;^  cap-strings  flying,  and  Miss  O’Neil, 
fresh  from  kissing  the  blarney  stone.  Half  the  town 
dropped  in  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  Marie  Smith 
among  the  rest ; but  she  couldn’t  keep  the  tears  back. 
That  doesn’t  look  like  making  fun.  and  I hope  Keller 
is  satisfied.  Poor  little  Benjie  kept  looking  at  him, 
stretched  on  the  sofa,  and  whispered  to  me,  “It’s  too 
wicked-bad  ! ” But,  good  news ! My  father  says  there 
is  no  need  of  permanent  lameness,  if  Keller  takes 
proper  care  of  himself.  The  boy’s  face  is  beaming 
with  smiles. 


272 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


Everybody  seemed  as  glad  to  see  us  as  if  we  had 
been  gone  a year  — all  but  Mr.  Bailey,  who  hadn’t  much 
to  say.  He  isn’t  very  well,  and  Keller  thinks  he  looks 
“winter-killed.”  I never  see  him  pass  the  window  but 
I think  of  Robert’s  speech, — 

“ There  he  goes  in  his  rolling  tower.” 

I don’t  believe  any  ancient  warrior  ever  did  wheel 
off  to  battle  in  one  of  those  movable  towers  with  more 
sense  of  importance  than  Mr.  Bailey  feels  walking  our 
streets.  His  school  won’t  last  forever,  which  is  a com- 
fort, and  it  is  so  late  now  that  I shan’t  go  any  more. 

Silas  starts  for  Boston  to-morrow  to  learn  civil  en- 
gineering ! ! It  is  a sudden  plan,  and  that  is  why  1 
use  two  exclamation  points.  Wonder  if  it  has  any- 
thing to  do  with  wanting  to  please  Judith  ? She  de- 
clares she  never  said  a word  against  his  being  a farmer ; 
still,  he  must  know  she  has  no  taste  for  cows  and  sheep. 
His  mother  doesn’t  like  his  going  away.  She  says  he’ll 
be  glad  to  come  home  and  “farm  it”  again.  You  see 
she  talks  “ dialect,”  and  is  a little  underbred,  which  is 
a mortification  to  Judith. 

Robert  said  to  me  the  other  day,  “ What  do  you 
think  of  the  lovers  ? Seem  pretty  cool  — don’t  they  ? ” 
I told  him  I supposed  they  were  very  deep. 

“ Ocean  deep,”  said  he.  “ I can’t  make  them  out. 
Only  this  I know:  Silas  is  very  much  attached  to  Ju- 
dith, and  I begin  to  think  it  is  almost  a pity  she  is  so 
well  aware  of  it.” 

“ Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?”  said  I. 

“ I mean  that  girls  are  coquettes  naturally,  and  it 
doesn’t  answer  to  let  them  know  their  power  if  you  can 
help  it.  It  makes  little  tyrants  of  them,  Marian.” 


UNJUST  SUSPICIONS, 


273 


“ But  what  if  she  thinks  as  much  of  Silas  as  he  does 
of  her?” 

‘‘Well,  I hope  she  does;  but  she  has  a very  queer 
way  of  showing  it.  If  I was  engaged  to  a young  lady, 
I should  think  it  polite,  at  least,  for  her  to  stay  in  the 
room  when  I called.” 

“ O,  Robert,”  said  I,  “ your  eyes  are  altogether  too 
sharp.  Judith  had  to  keep  going  out  yesterday,  for 
she  was  having  a dress  fitted.” 

Robert  is  very  keen,  and  sees  deep  down  into  most 
things;  but  in  such  affairs  as  this  his  judgment  seems 
to  fail  him.  I suppose  it  is  because  he  never  was  in 
love.  But  neither  was  I ever  in  love ; still,  being  a wo- 
man, I have  a sort  of  insight,  and  can  see  that  Judith’s 
state  of  mind  is  all  right ; and  I assured  him  over  and 
over  that  he  needn’t  trouble  himself. 

He  leaves  with  Silas  to-morrow,  to  walk  a hospital 
just  for  two  or  three  weeks.  I should  think  it  would 
be  a “path  of  pain.” 

May  5.  Mr.  Bailey  and  Judith  spend  a great  deal 
of  time  tracing  constellations.  They  stand  in  the  front 
door,  or  put  their  heads  out  at  the  window,  and  gaze 
up,  and  talk  up,  up,  out  of  my  reach.  They  ask  me  to 
go  and  join  them ; but  I’m  afraid  Mr.  Bailey  may  take 
another  fright.  Moreover,  I don’t  care  to  go.  I’m  sick 
of  the  sky  for  a long  while  to  come,  it  is  so  mixed  in 
my  mind  with  that  little  bamboo  cane.  I told  Judith 
yesterday  I should  be  glad  when  this  school  was  done, 
so  she  and  I could  see  more  of  each  other,  and  make  it 
seem  like  old  times.  And  I find  she  feels  just  so  her- 
self, only  she  is  so  kind-hearted  that  she  can’t  help 
being  polite  to  Mr.  Bailey.  Her  disposition  is  lovely ; 

18 


274  THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 

but  I don’t  see  the  need  of  her  treating  him  like  a par- 
ticular friend. 

May  20.  Robert  is  the  most  suspicious  person  I ever 
saw.  He  came  home  unexpectedly  last  night ; and  the 
moment  he  arrived  he  seemed  to  sniff  mischief  in  the 
air,  and  kept  watching  Mr.  Bailey,  and  Judith,  and 
^ me  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  He  wasn’t  decently 
polite  to  Fordyce,  as  Judith  calls  him,  and  said  two  or 
three  gruff  things;  but  Fordyce  looked  as  serene  as 
the  Great  Dipper.  I don’t  believe  he  would  know  a 
sneer  was  meant  for  him  unless  you  pointed  your 
finger  straight  at  him. 

Judith  hasn’t  been  at  all  well  lately.  She  thinks  it 
is  studying  too  hard  ; and  I dare  say  she  takes  cold 
keeping  her  head  out  of  the  window  so  much.  She 
has  fits  of  crying  and  laughing,  and  can’t  seem  to  stop 
herself ; and  when  Tid  brought  her  a letter  the  other 
night  from  Silas,  she  trembled  as  if  she  had  an  ague 
fit.  Aunt  Esther  has  no  patience  with  the  poor  dear. 
She  says,  — 

“Is  Judy  sick?  or  has  she  got  the  hysterics?  ” 

She  never  was  sick  herself.  She  is  as  tough  as  a 
pine  knot.  If  she  wasn’t  quite  so  tough,  perhaps  she’d 
be  a little  more  tender.  Such  unfeeling  remarks  dis- 
tress Judith,  and  she  begged  me  to  go  and  stay  with 
her  a day  or  two,  for  aunt  Esther  is  always  pleasanter 
when  I am  in  the  house,  though  I don’t  know  why. 
Aunt  Filura  happened  along,  and  I could  leave  as  well 
as  not,  and  I went ; and  that  was  the  very  night  Rob- 
ert came.  For  two  or  three  days  Judith  hadn’t  been 
down  to  breakfast ; but  the  next  morning  she  tried  it, 
and  looked  as  if  she  was  going  to  fall  down  stairs. 


UNJUST  SUSPICIONS. 


275 


Fordyce  ran  up  to  meet  her,  and  steadied  her  by  put- 
ting his  arm  round  her  waist.  A mere  act  of  polite- 
ness, of  course,  though  I wouldn’t  have  thanked  him 
for  such  politeness  myself.  I’d  rather  have  held  on 
by  the  balusters.  But  Robert  looked  like  a thunder- 
cloud, and  hardly  spoke  a word  all  through  breakfast. 

Afterwards,  when  Judith  and  Fordyce  were  going 
into  the  parlor,  he  stopped  me  in  the  entry,  and  asked, 
in  a low  tone,  — 

How  long  has  this  been  going  on  ? ” 

‘‘  How  long  has  what  been  going  on  ?” 

“Well,  steamboats,  for  instance,”  said  he,  looking 
down  on  me  as  if  I had  about  as  much  sense  as  a nut- 
cracker. Then  it  flashed  over  me  what  he  meant. 

“Robert  Willard,”  said  I,  “if  you’ve  no  more  confi- 
dence in  your  own  sister  than  to  suppose  she  is  flirting 
with  Mr.  Bailey,  you  don’t  deserve  to  have  a sister ; 
and  that’s  the  living  truth.” 

His  brows  cleared  a little  at  that. 

“ So  you’ve  seen  nothing  of  the  kind,”  said  he. 
“ Then  perhaps  I am  mistaken.  I’m  sure  I never 
thought  of  such  a thing  till  I came  home  last  night, 
and  saw  you  three  sitting  in  a row,  and  Fordyce' hold- 
ing Judith’s  hand  ” 

I turned  to  go  into  the  parlor,  and  put  an  end  to  the 
conversation ; but  Robert  pinned  me  to  the  wall,  and 
made  me  answer  a dozen  questions. 

“Did  I think  Judith  really  cared  much  for  Silas? 
Why  did  I think  so?  Then  what  made  Silas  seem  so 
unhappy  ? ” 

“ I take  Judith  at  her  word,”  said  I,  “but  it  seems 


276 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


you  don’t.  I’m  thankful  I haven’t  a suspicious  dis- 
position.” 

“Well,  Marian,  perhaps  you  can  set  me  right.  I 
can’t  really  understand  all  I’ve  seen  since  I came  home. 
Why  does  Fordyce  hover  about  her,  and  keep  his 
eyes  on  her  every  minute  of  the  time?” 

“ He’s  always  staring  at  somebody,”  said  I.  “ He 
doesn’t  know  any  better.” 

“ But  why  does  Judith  allow  him  to  hold  her 
hand  ? ” 

“ O,  that  is  electricity.  She  is  very  weak  this 
spring,  and  my  father  did  order  a galvanic  battery; 
but  Mr.  Bailey  has  a great  deal  of  magnetic  power, 
so  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing.” 

Robert  made  up  an  awful  face. 

“ There  are  ontological  reasons,”  said  I,  quoting  from 
memory,  “ why  the  human  system  is  the  best  known 
medium  of  electricity.” 

“What  kind  of  reasons,  Marian?  Say  that  over 
again  — will  you  ? ” 

“ Ontological,”  I repeated,  very  solemnly.  “ If  you 
saw  as  much  of  Mr.  Bailey  as  I do,  Robert,  you 
wouldn’t  be  so  dull  of  comprehension  as  you  are  now. 
You’d  have  these  big  words  stored  away  in  your 
mind.” 

“Ho  doubt  of  it.  I asked  you  to  say  ontological 
over  again,  just  to  see  if  you  would  curl  your  upper 
lip  as  high  as  you  did  the  first  time ; and  ’twas  done  ! ” 
said  Robert,  going  off  in  one  of  his  spasms  of  laughing. 
I was  almost  afraid  Judith  would  be  out  to  see  what 
the  matter  was ; but  he  stopped  suddenly,  and  looked 
very  sober. 


UNJUST  SUSPICIONS. 


277 


‘‘  What  a saint  Jude  must  be  to  stand  so  much  non- 
sense! She  never  takes  dislikes  to  people;  it  isn’t 
in  her.” 

‘‘No;  but  you  do,”  said  I,  “and  I know  it’s  wicked 
of  you.  But,  as  true  as  you  live,  Robert,  I wish  J udith 
was  a little  wicked,  too,  for  I’m  out  of  all  patience  with 
her  for  liking  everybody,  and  not  seeing  any  difference 
in  people.” 

“Just  so,”  said  Robert;  “Jude  is  too  amiable  by 
half;  but  I never  shall  be  hanged  for  my  sweetness,  and 
I don’t  believe  you  will,  either,  Marian.” 

That  is  quite  true : I make  no  boast  of  amiability. 
But  I think  it  would  have  been  quite  as  polite  in  Rob- 
ert if  he  hadn’t  twitted  on  facts. 

“ I was  afraid,  in  the  first  place,  you  were  going  to 
admire  Mr.  Bailey  rather  more  than  he  deserved,”  said 
he,  “ but  I don’t  see  any  danger  of  it  now.  I think  you 
feel  a little  as  I do.  Now,  I know  the  creature  means 
well,  but  my  fingers  tingle  to  shake  him.  Don’t  these 
conceited  people  stir  you  all  up  ? ” 

I longed  to  tell  Robert  he  might  shake  him  for  me 
and  welcome.  ’Twill  be  many  a long  day  before  I for- 
get how  Fordyce  Bailey  handed  me  back  my  heart  in 
an  old  graveyard.  Too  honest  altogether.  I never 
should  have  missed  it ! I wonder  what  Robert  would 
say  if  he  knew  of  that.  I don’t  believe  he  could  keep 
his  hands  off  the  man  — “for  ontological  reasons.” 

As  for  Judith,  if  she  knew  of  my  anti-offer,  she  would 
excuse  Fordyce,  and  think  he  showed  himself  very 
kind-hearted. 

June  1.  Keller  is  impatient  to  be  studying;  but  it 
won’t  do  to  let  him,  and  I have  locked  up  all  the 


278 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER. 


books.  He  is  too  proud  and  sensitive  to  talk  with 
father  about  his  new  plans;  but  he  wanted  me  to 
sound  him  about  his  going  to  college,  and  I did.  My 
father  looked  surprised. 

“ Too  late  for  that,”  said  he.  “ He  disappointed  me 
once,  and  now  I must  disappoint  him.” 

It  seems  my  father  has  met  with  losses,  though  he 
never  mentioned  it  before ; and  the  money  he  had  laid 
aside  for  college  expenses  is  gone.  But  what  did  Kel- 
ler say  when  I told  him  ? Why,  he  stood  up,  leaning 
on  his  crutches,  looking  very  pale  and  handsome,  and 
said  he,  — 

“All  the  better  for  that.  If  father  had  as  much 
money  as  John  Jacob  Astor,  I wouldn’t  take  a cent. 
No,  sir!  Let  me  once  stand  on  my  own  feet,  Molly, 
and  I can  push  myself  through.  I can  teach,  and  I 
can  saw  wood.  I’ve  been  a drag  on  the  family  long 
enough.  Think  of  that  two  hundred  dollars:  will 
you  ? ” 

I put  my  hand  over  his  mouth  till  I had  told  him 
the  whole  story  about  my  being  so  mean  — no,  so 
flimsy  — as  to  let  father  know.  And  then  I went  and 
brought  the  note  he  had  given  me,  and  tore  it  up  be- 
fore his  eyes. 

“You  see  my  telling  of  it  has  cancelled  the  debt, 
Keller ; and  now  I make  you  a present  of  the  money.” 

He  laughed,  and  said  we  would  see  about  that.  But 
I feel  lighter  since  I have  confessed,  even  though  he 
won’t  trust  me  with  a secret  now  as  readily  as  he  did 
before,  I’m  afraid. 

My  father  had  a talk  with  him  which  seemed  very 
satisfactory;  and  I believe  Mr.  Loring  — I can’t  get 


UNJUST  SUSPICIONS, 


279 


used  to  calling  him  William  — is  going  to  advance 
some  money.  And  now  the  boy  is  “ rubbing  up  ” in 
mathematics,  for  it  is  fully  decided  that  he  will  enter 
Harvard  in  September,  crutches  or  no  crutches,  — 
which  reminds  me  that  Robert  has  given  him  a beau- 
tiful* pair. 

There  is  no  end  to  everybody’s  kindness,  or  their 
visits,  either.  Charlie  Snow  is  here  half  the  time. 
Keller  is  running  over  with  fun,  and  keeps  the  whole 
house  laughing.  Pauline  says  you  may  depend  he  is  in 
earnest  this  time,  and  Robert  says  there’s  a light  in  his 
eyes  he  never  saw  there  before.  I think  a great  deal 
of  that  from  Robert,  for  I begin  to  fancy  he  sees  the 
dark  side  of  people.  What  a time  there  would  be  if 
Judith  should  know  what  he  said  about  her! 


280 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

PLATONIC  LOVE. 

‘‘  HAT’S  all  this  high  jinks  ? ” said  Keller,  as 

Marian  tried  to  dance  the  Highland  Fling 
^ ^ with  Benjie’s  comforter,  and  ended  by 
playing  jollification  tunes  on  the  piano  as  hard  as  she 
could  pound. 

“ Mr.  Bailey  has  gone  ofi*  in  his  rolling  tower,  and  I’m 
trying  to  celebrate.  Can’t  do  it  before  Judith;  she 
doesn’t  seem  to  enter  into  my  feelings.” 

As  she  spoke,  Judith’s  face  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
looking  suspiciously  long,  and  Keller  very  prudently 
took  to  his  crutches,  muttering,  with  a scowl,  — 

“ Privacy  going  on.  I’ll  warrant.  Guess  I’ll  leave.” 
Judith  threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  clasping  her  hands 
wearily  over  her  forehead.  Marian  danced  off  the 
music-stool  in  a moment,  and  kneeling  before  her,  be- 
gan to  drench  her  hair  with  cologne.  * 

“You  poor,  headachy  creature!”  said  she;  “I’m 
glad  you  came  to  me.  This  seems  a little  like  old 
times.  I’ve  got  you  to  myself  once  more,  and  now  I 
mean  to  keep  you.” 

“ O,  Marian,  you’re  my  dearest  in  the  whole  world ! ” 
cried  Judith,  throwing  her  arms  around  her  friend  with 
a sudden  gush  of  feeling.  Embraces  were  not  very 


PLATONIC  LOVE. 


281 


frequent  with  them;  they  were  not,  as  they  said,  “that 
sort  of  girls.”  But  this  little  outburst  was  rather  re- 
freshing to  Marian,  after  the  long,  dry  time  of  Fordyce, 
and  star-gazing,  and  bamboo  canes.  She  answered 
back,  laughingly,  — 

“No,  no,  Goosie;  not  your  dearest.  What  would 
Silas  say  to  that  ? ” 

Judith  shivered.  “Don’t  speak  his  name  to  me.” 

“Why,  Judith!” 

“ O,  if  I could  only  tell  somebody  how  I feel,  Marian ! 
You  are  -the  very  one  I’d  like  to  open  my  heart  to. 
But  you  couldn’t  understand,  child,  you  couldn’t  un- 
derstand.” 

“ Try  me,  and  see,”  replied  Marian,  rather  crushed 
by  a sense  of  “ youngness.”  “ Perhaps  you  don’t  love 
Silas,  as  well  as  you  thought  you  should.  There,  have 
I guessed  right  ? ” 

Judith  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  “Where  did  you 
get  such  an  idea  as  that,  Marian  ? ” 

“ Robert  asked  me  if  I didn’t  think  there  was  a little 
coolness  between  you,”  faltered  Marian;  “and  I sup- 
pose that  was  what  put  it  into  my  head.” 

“Robert!  did  he  notice  anything?  What  a boy! 
O,  Marian ! how  could  you  two  talk  of  me  behind  my 
back?  Was  it  friendly  in  you?  Haven’t  I always 
been  polite  and  cordial  to  Silas  ? I’m  sure,  if  anybody 
ever  tried  — ” 

Here  she  brushed  Marian  off,  and  sat  upright. 

“ I’m  going  to  tell  you  the  whole  story  now.  It  was 
nothing  but  kindled  love,  Marian.  It  wasn’t  sponta- 
neous.” 


“Kindled  love?” 


282 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


“ There,  dear,  I told  you  you  wouldn’t  understand.” 
‘‘Yes,  I do  understand,  too.  You  didn’t  naturally 
fancy  him.  It  was  his  caring  for  you  that  made  you 
love  him.  I knew  that  before.” 

“ But  I didn’t  love  him.” 

“O,  yes,  just  a little  bit,  Judith.” 

“No,  child.  I liked  him.  Love  is  a very,  very  dif- 
ferent thing.  ^ Nunc  scio  quid  sit  amor?  You  remem- 
ber how  we  used  to  read  that  in  the  Eclogues,  in  the 
dear  old  days  when  we  went  to  Mr.  Loring.  Ah,  me ! 
and  hadn’t  any  gri^f  beyond  leaving  the  Academy,  or 
any  care  beyond  our  Virgil  lessons.” 

“Yes,  Jude,  ‘ Awnc  scio?  ‘Now  I know  what  love 
may  be.’  But  that  doesn’t  apply  to  you.  You  donH 
know,  it  seems,  and  that’s  just  what’s  the  matter.” 
Judith  answered  bv  a flood  of  tears. 

“ O,  how  little  you  can  sympathize  with  me,  Marian ! 
— my  best  friend,  too.  There’s  no  one  in  this  world  I 
can  talk  to,  and  my  heart  is  just  breaking.” 

Marian  looked  puzzled  and  distressed. 

“Judith,  Judith,  my  heart  will  break  too,  if  I’m  no 
more  to  you  than  this.  I do  understand  you.  I don’t 
wonder  you’re  unhappy.  I should  feel  just  as  you  do 
if  I were  in  your  place.  You  can’t  marry  Silas,  and 
you’d  give  your  eyes  if  you  hadn’t  promised.” 

“Yes,  I shall  marry  him,”  responded  Judith,  slowly 
and  firmly.  Marian  was  raising  both  hands  in  remon- 
strance, when  Keller’s  entrance  put  an  end  to  the  con- 
versation; and  Judith,  declaring  her  head  was  better, 
started  for  home. 

“She’ll  bear  as  much  waiting  upon  as  any  girl  I 


PLATONIC  LOVE. 


283 


ever  saw,”  remarked  Keller,  watching  her  from  the 
window. 

Marian  did  not  hear.  She  went  into  the  kitchen,  put 
on  her  checked  apron,  and  got  supper,  without  speak- 
ing a word.  In  the  evening  she  sat  thoughtfully  over 
her  writing-desk,  with  paper  spread  before  her ; but  all 
she  did  was  to  write  one  letter,  asking  for  a catalogue 
of  Vick’s  flower-seeds  for  the  garden. 

“ Vick  ought  to  be  pleased  with  your  elegant  com- 
position,” yawned  Keller,  tired  of  the  long  quiet. 
“You’ve  been  two  hours  by  the  clock  getting  ofi*  that 
letter.” 

“ Papa,”  said  Marian,  playing  with  her  paper-folder, 
“I  want  to  ask  you  a serious  moral  question.  Isn’t  an 
engagement  as  sacred  as  a marriage?” 

The  doctor  was  so  used  to  being  sprung  upon  sud- 
denly by  Marian’s  “ serious . moral  questions,”  that  he 
answered,  without  the  least  surprise, — 

“No,  I don’t  consider  it  so.  Why  do  you  ask?” 

“ O,  I just  wanted  to  know.  Suppose  I had  prom- 
ised to  marry  somebody,  and  afterwards  didn’t  want 
to  do  it,  what  should  you  say  ? ” 

“ I should  say  you  ought  not  to  have  promised.” 

“ But  I’m  talking  in  sober  earnest,  papa.” 

“ So  am  I.  I mean  your  promise  should  have  been 
a conditional  one.  You  are  too  young  to  make  any 
other  kind.” 

“But  suppose  I had  made  the  other  kind,  firm  and 
hard ; what  then  ? ” 

“Then,  my  daughter,  a bad  promise  is  better  broken 
than  kept.” 

“ Everybody  doesn’t  say  that,  papa.” 


284 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


“ I know  it ; but  I do.  You  asked  what  I said,  I be- 
lieve.” 

“Well,  it  isn’t  very  hard  work  to  put  this  and  that 
together,”  thought  Keller,  remembering  Judith’s  long 
face.  “ Silas  is  going  to  get  his  walking  papers.  I 
suspected  as  much.  What  a mercy  for  Si!  Marian 
means  to  keep  secrets,  but  she  isn’t  as  deep  as  Jacob’s 
well,  not  by  several  inches.” 

Marian  folded  her  letter  and  directed  an  envelope  to 
Mr.  Vick  with  a happier  face.  Her  doubts  were  at  an 
end,  for  her  father’s  opinion  must  certainly  be  correct ; 
and  she  resolved  to  lose  no  time  in  repeating  it  to 
Judith. 

Going  to  her  next  day,  overflowing  with  sound  ad- 
vice, she  found  her  on  the  bed  in  her  own  room,  reading 
“ The  Princess.”  She  kissed  Marian,  and  smiled,  but 
not  with  effusion.  Marian  was  a little  pained. 

“There  is  something  lacking  in  me,”  thought  she; 
“ I don’t  know  exactly  what ; but  I will  pump  up  the 
right  sort  of  feeling,  and  sympathize  with  her,  if  it’s  a 
possible  thing.” 

“ Come,  dear,”  said  she  aloud,  “ I want  you  to  finish 
what  you  were  saying  yesterday.  You  think  it  doesn’t 
interest  me ; but  it  does  very  much  indeed.  Do  pray 
go  on.” 

“You  talked  with  Robert  about  me,”  said  Judith,  in 
an  injured  tone. 

“ But  I won’t  again.” 

“Truly?  Solemnly?  Then  I will  tell  you,  Marian. 
I love  somebody,  but  not  Silas.” 

Marian  stared,  a little  dazed.  She  thought  Judith 
ought  to  go  into  hysterics,  and  quite  expected  it  of  her. 


PLATONIC  LOVE. 


285 


An  engaged  girl  in  love  with  somebody  else?  But 
Judith  added,  with  a far-away  look,  which  was  not  at 
all  sad,  — 

“ Fordyce  loves  me  so  dearly  that  I could  no  more 
help  loving  in  return  than  a bird  can  help  flying.” 

Fordyce?  Then  he  was  the  one,  and  Robert  had 
guessed  right ! Marian  had  not  dared  ask  who  it  was ; 
but  she  was  scarcely  surprised ; indeed,  it  struck  her  at 
the  moment  that  she  had  known  it  all  along.  But  what 
did  possess  Judith  ? Had  she  lost  her  wits  ? She  had 
certainly  sunk  down,  down  into  the  very  dej)ths  of  fool- 
ishness ; and  Marian  could  hardly  command  her  voice  to 
speak  to  her  respectfully. 

‘‘  Fordyce  Bailey ! Why,  Judith ! ” 

“Yes,  Marian,  I knew  just  what  you  would  say. 
You  never  liked  Fordyce,  he  is  so  diflerent  from  com- 
mon people.” 

Marian  wished  she  could  say,  “ O,  I like  him  all  the 
better  for  being  peculiar.”  That  would  have  been  a 
great  pleasure  to  Judith ; but  even  for  her  friendship 
Marian  felt  that  she  could  not  utter  such  a lie  as  tliat. 

“You  know  I don’t  understand  metaphysics,”  said 
she,  meekly.  “ I can’t  understand  such  deep  people  as 
Mr.  Bailey.  But  that  needn’t  make  any  difference, 
dear;  tell  me  all  about  it.  Whatever  touches  you 
touches  me.” 

For  in  spite  of  a little  secret  disgust,  and  a great 
deal  of  disapproval,  Marian  could  not  bear  the  idea  of 
losing  her  friend’s  confidence,  and  was  determined  to 
keep  a discreet  tongue  if  she  could. 

Then  J udith,  with  many  ahs  and  O dears,  began  at  the 
very  beginning.  Silas  was  good,  very  good ; but  it  was 


286 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


tiresome,  she  said,  having  him  love  her  so.  She 
couldn’t  so  much  as  say,  “How  d’ye  do?”  but  he 
thought  it  the  sweetest  music,  or  bundle  her  hair  into  a 
net  but  he  called  it  becoming.  Once  she  happened  to 
remark  that  she  liked  guava  jelly,  and  he  sent  and 
bought  her  some,  which  mortified  her  extremely,  for 
she  wasn’t  sick  at  the  time,  and  Pitkin  Jones  heard  of 
it  and  laughed.  The  more  she  was  with  Silas,  the 
more  she  saw  they  were  not  congenial.  She  felt  re- 
lieved when  he  went  into  the  woods ; but  it  had  been 
a task  to  write  him  every  week.  She  had  written 
short,  stupid  letters,  just  to  see  how  he  would  take  it; 
but  he  had  considered  them  beautiful.  She  had 
dreaded  his  coming  home,  no  mortal  could  guess  how 
much. 

“ Marian,”  said  she,  “ when  somebody  loves  you  so  un- 
reasonably that  you  can’t  say  or  do  anything  to  disgust 
him,  then  you’ll  know  how  disagreeable  it  is.” 

“ I’m  not  at  all  afraid,”  replied  Marian.  “ I am  not 
fascinating,  like  you.  But,  Judith,  people  in  love  are 
never  reasonable ; what  can  you  expect  of  poor  Silas  ? ” 

“Yes,  very  true;  and  I am  so  sorry  for  him,  Mar- 
ian; much  sorrier  now  since  I know  what  love  real- 
ly is.” 

Then  Judith  sighed  and  looked  out  of  the  window, 
till  Marian  thought  all  the  story  had  been  told  which 
she  was  worthy  to  hear.  But  presently  Judith  relent- 
ed, and  began  again. 

It  seems  she  and  Mi*.  Bailey  had  fallen  in  love  at 
first  sight;  and,  such  a proceeding  being  contrary  to 
rules,  it  had  disagreed  with  them  both,  and  thrown  him 
into  dyspepsia  and  her  into  headaches.  But  not  a 


PLATONIC  LOVE, 


287 


word  had  been  said  till  about  a week  ago,  when  she 
fainted,  supposing  he  was  drowned;  and  then  there 
had  come  a tender  and  very  painful  crisis.  They 
loved,  but  their  consciences  would  not  permit  them  to 
be  happy.  Fordyce  was  the  soul  of  honor,  and  so  was 
Judith.  They  could  neither  of  them  forget  the  unfor- 
tunate Silas. 

Of  course  you  couldn’t ! ” cried  Marian,  “ pumping 
up  the  right  sort  of  feeling”  at  last,  and  speaking  with 
animation. 

“We  were  in  despair,”  said  Judith,  looking  as  rueful 
as  Thankful  when  she  saw  red  Northern  Lights. 

“ Of  course  you  were,”  cried  Marian  again,  who  con- 
sidered despair  very  proper  under  the  circumstances. 

“But  we  feel  very  different  now,”  said  Judith,  with 
kindling  eyes  ; “ for  what  does  this  little  wee  wee  world 
amount  to  ? Fordyce  says  I must  keep  my  word  and 
marry  Silas ; and  I certainly  shall.  It  seems  hard  — 
doesn’t  it  ? But  I will  do  my  duty,  Marian,  and  then, 
when  it  is  all  over,  no  one  can  prevent  Fordyce  and 
me  from  coming  together  in  heaven.” 

“Why,  Judith,”  said  Marian,  much  shocked,  “I  never 
heard  any  one  talk  so  before.” 

“ Because  people  are  so  material  and  sublunary,  dear. 
Fordyce  has  elevated  my  ideas  very  much.  I am  will- 
ing to  drag  through  this  life,  doing  my  duty  by  Silas, 
and  waiting  till  by  and  by  to  be  happy.” 

“But  I shouldn’t  think  Silas  would  thank  you  for 
dragging  through  life  with  him.  My  father  wouldn’t 
advise  that.  He  said  last  night  — ” 

“ Don’t  tell  me  what  your  father  or  any  one  else  says, 
Marian.  I am  in  an  exalted  mood,  and  I don’t  want 


288 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


to  be  disturbed.  Fordyce  and  I have  made  up  our 
minds,  and  are  contented  to  sacrifice  ourselves  for  the 
sake  of  duty.” 

Marian  beat  a tune  on  the  bureau-top.  She  felt  as 
if  the  sound  advice  she  had  brought  from  home  was 
out  of  place  now,  and  must  be  saved  for  another  time, 

“ Let  me  see,”  said  she ; “ I was  at  your  house  the 
very  evening  after  you  fainted  away,  Judith.  You  and 
Mr.  Bailey  were  writing  back  and  forth  on  the  slate ; 
but  I didn’t  suspect  it  was  anything  but  crambo  verses. 
How  dull  I must  be ! 

“ And  all  those  evenings  this  spring,  when  he 
wrapped  you  up  in  his  great-coat,  and  you  put  your 
heads  out  of  the  window,  were  you  really  talking  about 
astronomy  ? ” asked  she,  a vague  distrust  of  everything 
coming  into  her  mind.  If  she  should  find  the  stars 
were  spangles  cut  out  of  gilt  paper,  it  would  hardly 
surprise  her  now. 

‘‘Yes;  sometimes  we  talked  of  astronomy,”  replied 
Judith ; “ but  oftener  we  spoke  our  own  thoughts.  It 
is  surprising  how  they  harmonize.  It  is  like  a chord  in 
music.  But  I haven’t  that  grasp  of  sublime  ideas 
which  Fordyce  has,  not  by  any  means.  He  is  a born 
poet ; but  you  don’t  appreciate  him,  Marian.” 

“ No,  dear;  I told  you  I didn’t.” 

“ And  lately  we  have  been  scanning  the  heavens,  try- 
ing to  decide, — now  you  won’t  laugh,  unless  you  are 
very  materialistic  in  your  views,  Marian,  — trying  to  de- 
cide which  star  to  live  on  after  we  die.” 

“ What?” 

“Venus,  Jupiter,  or  Mars.  Fordyce  says  it  stands 
to  reason  that  disembodied  people  dwell  there.  We 


STUDYING  ASTRONOMY  Page  288. 


PLATONIC  LOVE. 


289 


have  decided  on  Venus.  We  like  it  best  through  the 
telescope.  — Marian,  you  are  laughing.” 

‘‘I  didn’t  mean  to,  Judith ; but  it  sounds  so  queer! 
Are  you  sure  it  isn’t  wicked  ? ” 

“ How  can  it  be  wicked  ? As  I was  saying,  we  have 
decided  on  Venus,  and  the  one  who  dies  first  will  go 
there  and  wait  for  the  other.  This  is  not  a mathemati- 
cal certainty,  Marian ; but  it  is  a delightful  prospect. 
And,  as  spirits  are  ethereal,  why  can’t  they  go  where 
they  please  ? Tell  me  why  not  ? ” 

“O,  dear!  I don’t  know;  only  it  seems  as  if  you 
are  talking  about  things  you  ought  not  to,”  said  Mar- 
ian, not  wishing  Judith  to  see  how  shocked  she  really 
was. 

So  this  was  the  sort  of  astronomy  lesson  the  girl  had 
been  learning  with  her  arms  stuck  through  the  sleeves 
of  Fordyce’s  great-coat ! 

“No  wonder  she  has  headache,”  thought  Marian. 
“Just  hearing  her  tell  of  it  has  wound  my  head  up  so 
it  seems  as  if  it  would  crack.” 

“ There,  Marian,  now  I have  told  you  things  I would 
never  tell  to  another  living  being.  If  Robert  should 
know  it,  he  would  consider  it  weak  and  ridiculous. 
He  hasn’t  a poetical  mind,  and  can’t  distinguish  the 
different  kinds  of  love.  Now,  this  is  purely  platonic, 
and  very  spiritualizing.  I know  by  the  infiuence  it  has 
had  on  me.  But  Robert  would  not  apjDreciate  it.  He 
would  fly  off  in  a tangent,  and  say  I was  unfaithful  to 
Silas.” 

“Yes,  I think  he  would,”  said  Marian;  “and  I must 
say  it  has  that  appearance.” 

“Yes;  but,  Marian,  how  can  I convince  you  it  isn’t 

19 


290 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


SO  ? Fordyce  is  going  to  write  me  one  letter,  and  that 
is  all.  Just  think,  only  one  letter,  and  then  our  ac- 
quaintance will  cease ! I don’t  see  how  I keep  up  at 
all!  You  can’t  guess  what  this  is  to  me.  Never  to 
see  him  again ! Or  only  as  a friend,  perhaps,  months 
or  years  hence ! ” 

Marian  tried  to  look  sympathetic,  but  failed  entirely. 
Still,  she  was  very  sorry  for  Judith.  Poor  girl,  how 
she  was  crying! 

“ He  will  never  marry ; he  will  labor  for  the  good  of 
mankind,  and  wait  till  by  and  by,  as  I do,  to  be  happy. 
But  that  one  precious  letter  he  must  write.  And, 
Marian,  dearest,  I have  a favor  to  ask  of  you.  Will 
you  let  him  direct  the  letter  to  you?  It  will  come 
some  time  next  week.” 

‘‘  What ! a letter  to  you,  directed  to  me  ? ” 

‘‘Yes.  Robert  knows  his  writing,  and  there  would 
be  trouble  at  once.” 

“ So  it  is  to  come  to  me,  whether  I am  willing  or 
not,”  said  Marian.  “Then  it  seems  to  me,  Judith,  it  is 
rather  late  in  the  day  to  ask  my  consent ! ” 


GODS  AND  HALF-GODS. 


291 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


GODS  AND  HALF-GODS. 


Miss  Tottenham. 


August  5. 


HAVE  said  nothing  to  you  all  summer,  for  I 


sly ! My  own  little  Judith ! I thought  a mar- 


twins  ; but  it  seems  it  isn’t.  And  when  you  appear  to 
be  studying  astronomy,  you  are  really  talking  about 
keeping  house  in  the  stars.  And  when  you  marry  one 
man,  you  are  loving  another.  And  when  you  get  let- 
ters from  “ another,”  it  is  in  the  name  of  somebody 
else.  My  head  was  in  a hard  knot. 

Last  June  I promised  to  watch  for  that  letter  from  Mr. 
Bailey,  and  I made  Tom  go  to  the  post  office  every 
night  the  moment  I heard  the  stage  wheels,  so  he 
would  be  sure  to  get  ahead  of  Robert,  wffio  insists  upon 
bringing  our  mail,  though  he  must  know  there’s  no 
need  of  it.  I was  just  as  faithful  as  a watch-dog,  and 
insisted  on  Keller’s  spending  a few  days  at  Poonoosac, 
just  to  get  him  out  of  the  way.  But  all  in  vain.  The 
night  the  letter  actually  came.  Miss  O’Neil  was  seized 
with  what  she  considered  her  last  sickness.  You  may 
depend  upon  her  for  dying  at  the  wrong  time.  And 


couldn’t.  To  think  Judith  should  have  been  so 


riage  engagement  was  a fixed  thing,  like  the  Siamese 


292 


THE  DOCTORS  DAUGHTER, 


she  made  choice  of  me,  out  of  all  the  girls  in  the  vil- 
lage, to  go  and  stay  with  her.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  ever  asked  me,  and  I couldn’t  bear  to  refuse. 
I gave  Tom  a final  charge  about  the  post  office,  and 
started.  It  seems  Benjie  heard  me  talking  to  Tom  — 
that  child  hears  everything.  When  I got  to  Miss 
O’Neil’s,  I found  she  was  having  fainting  turns,  and 
felt  very  down-hearted,  for  she  isn’t  used  to  being  sick  ; 
but  she  revived  at  sight  of  me,  and  said  she  guessed, 
after  all,  she  should  live  till  green  sauce  came,  and  she 
had  always  noticed  that  if  she  did  live  till  green  sauce 
came,  she  was  sure  to  get  through  the  rest  of  the 
year.” 

About  ten  o’clock  she  called  for  some  cold  water, 
and  said  I must  draw  it  from  the  Liscomb  well,  across 
the  street.  As  I was  coming  back,  pitcher  in  hand,  I 
met  Robert. 

“What  are  you  doing?”  said  he,  taking  the  pitcher 
out  of  my  hands. 

“Watching  with  Miss  O’Neil.” 

“ I wish  I had  known  it ; I would  have  brought  your 
mail.” 

“ Was  there  anything  for  me?” 

“Yes;  a letter  as  big  as  your  head.” 

“ Ah ! Where  did  it  come  from  ? ” 

I thought  I must  say  something,  for  he  was  looking 
at  me,  and  my  face  was  turning  various  colors  by 
moonlight. 

“From  New  York.” 

“ New  York!” 

I was  thinking  to  be  sure  he  would  say  Boston. 

“I  beg  your  pardon  for  noticing  the  post-mark, 


GODS  AND  HALF-GODS, 


293 


Marian;  but  the  handwriting  was  almost  exactly  like 
Fordyce  Bailey’s,  and  I looked  before  I thought.” 

“It’s  of  no  consequence,”  said  I,  ready  to  sink 
through  the  door-stone.  “You  needn’t  apologize. 
But  what  did  you  do  with  the  letter?” 

“Well,  the  fact  is,  Tom  came  and  took  it  out  of  my 
hands,  with  the  rest  of  the  mail.  It  seems  I wasn’t 
expected  to  inquire  at  your  box.  Benjie  read  me  a 
small  lecture  on  the  subject  when  I got  to  the  house. 
I hope  you  won’t  be  offended  with  me,  and  think  I 
meant  to  be  officious.  I’ve  always  been  in  the  habit 
of  getting  your  mail,  and  it  never  occurred  to  me  till 
just  now  that  you  could  have  any  objections.” 

You  w'ould  have  thought  he  was  speaking  to  the 
Queen  of  England,  he  was  so  deferential.  Still  I could 
see  that  he  felt  very  much  hurt. 

“ O,  Kobert,”  said  I,  “it  was  only  — ’’and  there  I 
stopped.  I couldn’t  say  it  was  only  in  this  particular 
case  that  I didn’t  wish  him  to  get  the  mail.  Perhaps 
he  knew  what  I meant  as  well  as  if  I had  said  it;  or 
perhaps  he  really  thought  I considered  him  officious ; 
at  any  rate,  he  was  a good  deal  disturbed,  I knew  by 
his  eyes.  He  has  the  sort  that  tell  when  anything 
goes  wrong.  It’s  partly  the  color  that  does  it  — a 
beautiful  brown,  like  Pauline’s,  with  once  in  a while  a 
darker  shade  stealing  over  it,  as  if  there  were  unknown 
depths  in  there.  I never  saw  such  remarkable  eyes, 
with  so  much  cloud  and  sunshine.  It  was  none  of  his 
business  about  the  letter ; but  I didn’t  like  to  see  him 
look  so  glum,  and  was  going  to  say  something  to  light 
up  his  eyes,  when  Miss  O’Neil  called  out, — 

“Pretty  works,  Miriam;  picking  up  young  men, 


294 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


and  talking  in  the  street.  Where’s  my  drink  of 
water  ? ” 

I ran  in  then,  for  fear  the  neighbors  would  hear  her. 

Next  morning,  when  I went  home,  I asked  Tom 
what  he  did  with  the  letters.  He  said  he  put  them  on 
the  centre-table  in  the  sitting-room.  My  father  never 
alluded  to  them,  only  looked  at  me  sharply  all  dinner- 
time, and  I was  afraid  to  speak.  After  dinner,  when  I 
had  brought  my  work  into  the  sitting-room,  he  came 
in  and  walked  back  and  forth,  with  his  hands  behind 
him,  and  at  last  stopped  right  before  me,  and  said  he, 
in  that  cutting  tone  of  his,  — 

‘‘Well,  my  daughter,  you  may  not  know  it  now,  but 
you  will  find  out  some  time 

‘ How  salt  his  food  who  fares 
Upon  another’s  bread ; how  steep  his  path 
Who  treadeth  up  and  down  another’s  stairs.’” 

I couldn’t  think  of  anybody’s  stairs  I had  trodden 
up  and  down  but  Judith’s.  And  then  I sprang  out  of 
my  chair,  for  I thought  he  referred  to  my  going  to 
Mr.  Willard’s  so  much  when  Fordyce  was  there.  He 
must  have  detected  the  handwriting  as  well  as  Robert, 
and  they  both  thought  it  was  a secret  correspondence. 
It  was  quite  too  bad.  I wanted  to  clear  myself ; but, 
just  as  I was  going  to  speak,  I remembered  I was 
under  bonds,  and  couldn’t. 

“Calm  yourself,  child,”  said  my  father.  “I  will  ex- 
plain presently  why  I am  displeased  with  you.  But, 
first  of  all,  I must  make  confession  of  having  done 
wrong  myself.  I took  up  a letter  last  night  directed 
to  you.  It  was  so  thick  as  to  require  three  postage 


GODS  AND  HALF-GODS, 


295 


stnmps,  and,  as  it  came  from  New  York,  I never 
doubted  it  was  Vick’s  Catalogue  of  Flower  Seeds, 
which  you  sent  for  a few  days  ago.  I wondered  it 
should  be  mailed  like  a letter,  but  presumed  it  was  a 
mistake.  And,  Marian,  I — opened  it.” 

“ O,  papa ! ” screamed  I. 

“ It  was  a careless  thing.  I claim  no  right  to  inter- 
fere with  your  correspondence,  as  you  very  well  know. 
I opened  this  merely  to  see  if  Vick  had  an  Ophir  Rose.” 
I just  shook  all  over  with  the  dread  of  what  was 
coming  next. 

“ And,  instead  of  the  catalogue,  out  fell  a written 
document,  beginning,  ‘Mine  in  heaven  !’” 

“ O,  father ! And  you  thought  that  meant  me ! ” 

“I  hardly  know  what  I thought.  I was  too  utterly 
astonished  to  form  an  idea.  The  next  words  were  like 
these : — 

“‘Yes,  Judith,  though  another  will  call  you  his  for 
the  little  while  we  stay  below,  yet  your  own  Fordyce 
bids  defiance  to  the  pettiness  of  this  small  earth,  and 
dares  claim  you  for  his  bride  in  the  stars 
“There,  Marian,  what  do  you  say  to  that?” 

What  can  I say,  papa,  except  that  I am  very,  very 
sorry  ? ” 

“ Sorry  for  what  ? It  seems  this  is  no  news  to  you.” 
“ Sorry  you  read  the  letter.” 

“ Ah,  but  I didn’t,  my  daughter,”  said  he,  dropping 
it  in  my  hands  as  if  it  wasn’t  fit  to  be  touched  without 
gloves.  “I  never  read  another  line  after  I came  to  the 
‘bride  in  the  stars.’” 

“ O,  but,  papa  — ” 

“Yes,  Marian,  I know  what  you  would  say:  I had 


296 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


read  far  enough  to  see  through  the  whole  business ; 
and  so  I had.  I do  not  need  to  ask  any  questions. 
Judith  is  a heartless  coquette  — a wicked,  deceitful 
girl ; and  my  daughter  is  conniving  with  her  to  impose 
upon  Silas  Hackett,  one  of  the  best  young  men  that 
ever  grew  up  in  Quinn ebasset.” 

‘‘  O,  father ! stop  a minute,  and  let  me  think.  I 
don’t  know  how  much  I ought  to  tell ; but  it  can’t  do 
any  harm  to  say  this:  I never  knew  Fordyce  was  in 
love  with  Judith  until  after  he  went  away.” 

“ Can  it  be  possible,  Marian  ? And  you  were  with 
them  half  the  time!  What  is  the  matter  with  your 
eyes  ? ” 

‘‘  Cataracts,  I guess.  Robert  saw  something  wrong ; 
but,  truly,  father,  I couldn’t  believe  it  was  so.” 

My  father  came  a little  nearer  to  me  then,  for  he 
began  to  see  I hadn’t  “ connived.” 

“ I am  glad  to  know  so  much  in  your  favor,  Marian. 
But  by  what  right  did  Mr.  Bailey  direct  this  letter  to 
you  ? It  must  have  been  a contrived  plan.” 

“Yes,  sir;  but  contrived  without  my  knowledge. 
I didn’t  even  know  till  the  other  day  that  the  letter 
was  coming.” 

“Humph!  Judith  doesn’t  scruple  to  take  liberties 
with  her  friends.  And  you  are  expected  to  endure  all 
this  for  her  sake  ? ” 

“ O,  it’s  nothing,  papa,  except  the  risk  of  being  mis- 
understood.” 

“ Yes,  child.  Do  you  remember  the  cat  whose  paws 
the  monkey  made  use  of  to  pull  chestnuts  out  of  the 
fire?” 


GODS  AND  HALF-GODS, 


297 


‘‘  But  there  are  to  be  no  more  letters,  father.  This 
is  the  last  one.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

O,  yes,  sir ; Mr.  Bailey  is  very  honorable.” 

‘‘  Very.” 

“ But,  father,  he  certainly  is.  He  couldn’t  help  his 
feelings  towards  Judith ; but  he  has  gone  away  now, 
and  will  stay  away ; they  are  not  to  meet  any  more.” 

“ An  excellent  plan,  my  dear,  — if  well  carried  out. 
And,  meanwhile,  Judith  is  to  keep  Silas  blindfolded, 
and  marry  him  — is  she?” 

“ She  thinks  she  can’t  break  her  word.” 

“ Marian,  look  up  in  my  face.  Do  you  consider  this 
proper  behavior  ? ” 

‘‘It  doesn’t  seem  so,  father;  but  I don’t  understand 
such  matters.” 

“ Don’t  understand  ! Why,  I hope  you  have  com- 
mon sense.” 

“ But,  father,  there  is  something  about  love  so 
queer!  It  seems  just  like  a whirlwind;  takes  people 
right  off  their  feet,  and  spins  them  round  and  round.” 
My  father  laughed. 

“ ‘ The  gods  approve 

The  depth,  but  not  the  tumult,  of  the  soul,’  ” 

said  he.  “ I don’t  believe  in  French  love,  daughter. 
You  may  carry  the  letter  to  Judith,  with  my  sincere 
apologies  for  opening  it;  and  tell  her  if  I ever  see 
another  of  the  same  sort  I shall  pass  it  over  to  Silas 
Hackett.” 

“ O,  father,  how  cruel ! ” 

But  it  was  of  no  use  pleading  with  him  ; the  more  I 


298 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


said,  the  more  exasperated  he  grew.  I went  over  to 
Mr.  Willard’s  with  the  letter,  and  met  Robert  on  the 
street.  He  looked  sober,  and  I knew  I looked  guilty. 
It  seemed  as  if  I might  say  something  to  make  things 
more  comfortable,  and  said  I,  — 

“ Robert  — ” 

He  stood  still,  waiting  for  me  to  finish ; but  I only 
remarked, — 

‘‘  A lovely  day,”  and  passed  on. 

Judith  was  very  eager  to  see  me,  for  she  was  almost 
sure  I had  a letter.  She  had  been  at  our  house  in  the 
forenoon  to  inquire,  but  found  me  asleep.  Nobody 
knows  how  I dreaded  to  put  that  document  in  her 
hands,  with  the  torn  envelope,  and  tell  her  who  had 
opened  it.  I knew  she  would  be  dreadfully  mortified. 
But  she  was  worse  than  that : she  was  frantic.  My 
father  was  the  last  person  to  have  sympathy  with  her, 
she  said.  Never  was  any  one  so  unlucky  as  she.  And 
Robert  had  seen  the  handwriting.  He  would  take  her 
head  off.  He  couldn’t  appreciate  such  a peculiar  case. 
I slipped  out  and  got  the  hartshorn,  and  then  left  her 
alone  to  peruse  the  manuscript.  When  I came  back 
she  was  in  high  feather,  and  I was  glad,  though  at 
the  same  time  I knew  her  face  had  no  right  to  be  so 
bright. 

‘‘  It  is  well  this  is  the  end  of  the  correspondence,” 
said  I,  “ for  you  see  I could  not  have  any  more  letters 
pass  through  my  hands.” 

I did  not  tell  her  my  father  had  said,  if  she  made  a 
cat’s  paw  of  me  again,  he  should  forbid  her  the  house. 

“ Fordyce  wants  to  write  again,”  said  she ; “ but  I 
mustn’t  allow  it.  I’m  resolved  to  be  faithful  to  Silas.” 


GODS  AND  HALF-GODS. 


299 


“ Faithful ! ” I had  to  turn  my  face  away  to  hide  a 
smile.  She  kept  sniffing  the  hartshorn,  and  growing 
more  and  more  cheerful. 

“Fm  sorry  Robert  saw  the  handwriting  ; but  never 

mind,  Marian ; he  will  probably  think  you  are  engaged 
to  Fordyce.” 

“ Now,  Judith,  do  you  suppose  he  will  ?” 

« Why,  what  do  you  care  ? ” 

I wanted  to  tell  her  Fd  as  lief  he  would  think  I had 
committed  burglary ; but  it  wouldn’t  do  to  say  so. 

And  your  father  wouldn’t  breathe  a word  ? ” 

‘‘  No,  Judith  ; don’t  imagine  it  for  a moment.” 

‘‘  So  nothing  dreadful  has  happened,  after  all ; and 
poor  Silas  will  never  be  the  wiser.  O,  Marian,  Fm  in 
such  an  exalted  frame  of  mind,  I feel  prepared  to  do 
my  duty  all  my  life  by  that  boy.  You  don’t  know  the 
self-sacrifice  there  is  in  true  love.” 

It  was  dreadful  to  see  her  so  deluded ; but  the  more 
I reasoned  with  her,  the  more  she  thought  I was  of  the 
earth  earthy,  and  “ couldn’t  appreciate  such  a peculiar 
case.” 

She  was  so  high  up  in  the  blue  that  she  never 
stopped  to  care  about  Robert’s  getting  a wrong  im- 
pression of  me.  I didn’t  like  it  very  well  to  have  him 
suppose  I was  carrying  on  a private  correspondence 
with  Fordyce,  after  all  I had  said  against  him.  Robert 
never  mentioned  his  name  to  me,  but  he  seemed  very 
sober,  and  stopped  getting  our  mail.  I suppose  he 
thought  I was  a deceitful,  foolish  girl,  and  he  had  just 
found  me  out.  Perhaps  some  people  wouldn’t  have 
minded  ; but  Robert  has  always  been  a firm  friend  of 

mine,  and  I think  a great  deal  of  his  good  opinion. 


300 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


Affairs  went  on  very  quietly  for  a while.  My  father 
asked  no  questions.  Keller  knew  nothing  whatever, 
but  spoke  now  and  then  of  Silas,  and  darkly  hinted 
that  some  girls  were  naturally  fickle.  Judith  answered 
Fordyce’s  letter,  bidding  him  stop  writing,  and  he 
obeyed.  But  all  the  while,  it  seems,  he  was  turning 
things  over  in  his  mind,  and  coming  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  shouldn’t  wait  till  they  went  to  the  stars ; he 
would  rather  be  married  on  earth.  So  he  took  the 
matter  into  his  own  hands,  and  wrote  Silas  Hackett  a 
very  saucy  letter.  Silas  was  busy  with  his  engineer- 
ing, trying  to  please  Judith,  and  ‘thinking  everything 
was  right,  when  this  letter  came.  It  told  him  flatly 
that  he  was  very  much  mistaken  if  he  thought  Judith 
Willard  cared  anything  about  him.  The  idea  was 
preposterous.  His  nature  was  too  grovelling  for  her. 
She  only  pitied  him  — poor  fellow ! while  her  heart 
was  given  to  a far  superior  and  more  cultivated  man ; 
to  wit,  Fordyce  Bailey,  Esquire.  If  Silas  Hackett, 
yeoman,  knew  what  was  best,  he  would  take  his  un- 
worthy self  out  of  the  way,  and  not  annoy  the  dear 
girl  any  more. 

This  was  a great  surprise  to  Silas,  but  he  was  too 
sharp  to  be  imposed  upon.  He  wrote  back  to  Mr. 
Bailey  that  he  should  wait  till  he  heard  from  the  lady 
herself  before  he  took  himself  out  of  the  way.  For- 
dyce was  not  prepared  to  find  the  country  boy  so  cool 
and  dignified.  Silas  was  more  than  a match  for  him, 
and  sent  his  impudent  letter  to  Judith,  merely  remark- 
ing that  it  must  be  either  a joke  or  a foolish  mistake ; 
he  had  “ all  faith  in  her,  and  knew  she  would  not  de- 
ceive him.” 


GODS  AND  HALF-GODS, 


301 


His  manly  conduct  shamed  Judith. 

“What  shall  I do?”  said  she.  “Tell  me  'mhat 
to  do.” 

“ Write  him  the  whole  truth,”  said  I. 

“ But,  Marian,  he  will  despise  me.  He  won’t  under- 
stand that  I was  sacrificing  my  feelings  for  his  sake. 
I can’t  tell  him.  Don’t  you  see  I can’t  ? ” 

My  heart  turned  away  from  Judith  for  just  .one  mo- 
ment, with  a feeling  almost  like  disgust ; and  then  I 
remembered  what  good  friends  we  had  always  been, 
and  how  Robert  had  said  if  anybody  had  any  influence 
over  her,  it  was  I ; and  I put  my  cheek  close  to  hers, 
and  spoke  firmly,  as  if  I was  talking  to  a child. 

“Don’t  you  know,  dear,  I can  see  the  thing  just  as 
it  is,  for  my  mind  is  clear,  and  yours  isn’t  ? You  don’t 
think  what  you  are  doing.  There  is  nothing  safe  but 
the  truth,  Judith  — the  plain,  square  truth.” 

That  brought  her  to  her  senses  at  last,  for  she  means 
to  be  sincere,  only  she  lacks  courage.  She  could  not 
bear  to  write  Silas  that  Fordyce  was  correct ; but  she 
told  him  if  he  would  come,  she  would  “explain  things 
to  his  satisfaction.” 

He  came,  and  she  explained ; but  I doubt  if  it 
was  to  his  satisfaction,  for  he  looked  so  distressed  that 
everybody  noticed  it.  Judith  said  not  a word  about 
breaking  the  engagement;  but  he  told  her  she  was 
free,  and  he  never  spoke  a word  of  blame.  She  de- 
clares she  never  came  so  near  loving  him  as  she  did 
when  he  told  her  she  was  free ; he  looked  so  noble, 
and  his  face  was  so  pale  and  refined. 

He  went  away,  and  everybody  seemed  to  know  at 
once  how  the  case  stood ; and  such  a time  as  there 


302 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


was  all  over  town ! for  Quinnebasset  people  will  talk. 
Robert  was  too  proud  to  ask  questions,  but  he  seemed 
very  much  surprised. 

Of  course  Judith,  in  her  distress  wrote  to  Fordyce, 
and  he  came  straightway  to  see  her;  got  out  of  the 
stage,  and  walked  all  the  way  from  the  post  office,  in  a 
heavy  rain-storm,  on  purpose  to  surprise  her.  I’ve 
heard  before  of  people  that  didn’t  know  enough  to  keep 
out  of  fire  and  water!  Judith  and  I were  standing  in 
the  front  hall,  and  what  think  he  said,  as  he' nipped  in, 
swinging  his  cane  ? 

“Ah,  Judith,  when  the  half -gods  go,  the  gods  may 
arrive ! ” 

That’s  Emerson,  I wish  you  to  know,  and  “half- 
gods ’’stands  for  Silas  Hackett,  and  “gods”  for  For- 
dyce Bailey.  I looked  down  at  Fordyce’s  muddy 
boots,  and  thought, — 

“ Well,  young  man,  you  may  call  yourself  a god,  but 
you  have  day  feetr 

I ran  home,  and  left  the  lovers  to  themselves,  rather 
glad  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart  that  matters  were 
approaching  a crisis.  I hadn’t  been  at  home  five  min- 
utes, and  Benjie  and  I were  having  a cosy  rock  in  the 
big  chair,  when  Robert  rushed  in,  looking  both  pleased 
and  provoked,  and  shook  hands  with  me  in  the  hearti- 
est manner,  as  if  he  would  never  let  go. 

“Well,  you  are  pure  gold,  after  all,”  said  he,  “as 
I always  used  to  think ; and  I beg  your  pardon  for 
taking  up  any  other  opinion.” 

“ Thank  you,”  said  I.  “ Please  explain.” 

“ Why,  I might  have  known  better  than  to  think 
you  cared  for  that  fool.” 

And  then  he  set  his  teeth  together,  and  said  he, — 


GODS  AND  HALF-GODS, 


303 


“ But  it  cuts  me  up  to  find  it’s  my  own  sister  that’s 
lacking  in  sense.” 

He  did  feel  dreadfully.  But  it  did  me  good  to  have 
him  so  cordial  to  me  once  more.  He  is  none  of  your 
milk-and-water  sort;  and  it  pleased  him  so  to  find  I 
hadn’t  deceived  him,  that  it  aluiost  made  up  for  his 
trouble  about  Judith.  I come  next  to  her,  I do  think, 
in  his  mind. 

‘‘Don’t  be  hard  on  Judith,”  said  I.  “She  couldn’t 
help  it.  It’s  too  bad  ; but  she  is  really  in  earnest  this 
time.  You  can  see  for  yourself,  Robert,  she  must  be 
in  love  with  that  man,  for  if  she  wasn’t,  how  could  she 
endure  him  ? ” 

That  set  him  off  in  a gale  of  laughing,  though  I 
couldn’t  see  what  I had  said  so  very  absurd.  If  it 
doesnH  take  blind  love  to  make  some  people  endurable, 
then  I’m  mistaken. 

“ I like  to  hear  you  plead  Judith’s  cause,”  said  Rob- 
ert, “your  arguments  are  so  original.  But  the  trouble 
is  with  me,  I am  afraid  your  client  doesn’t  know  her 
own  mind.” 

“ What  makes  you  think  so  ?” 

“Well,  I don’t  believe  in  being  ‘struck  with  huge 
love’  all  of  a sudden.  The  real  sort  is  something  dif- 
ferent — has  a good  solid  foundation.”  ^ 

“ That  shows  you  don’t  know  anything  about  it,  sir.” 

“As  much  as  you  do,  ma’am,  begging  your  pardon. 
Do  you  suppose,  now,  Judith  would  ever  have  thought 
of  this  man  with  the  bamboo  cane  if  she  hadn’t  been 
tired  of  Silas?” 

“ Why,  Robert  Willard  ! what  an  idea  ! ” 

“ Well,  I can’t  help  my  ideas.  And,  what’s  more,  I 


304 


THE  DOCTOR" S DAUGHTER, 


think  she’ll  be  dreadfully  ashamed  of  this  six  months 
hence.” 

I shook  my  head. 

‘‘Wait  and  see,”  said  he,  looking  as  wise  as  an  owl. 

It  isn’t  six  months  yet;  so  I can’t  say  positively. 
She  never  thought  of  such  a thing  as  a commonplace, 
matter-of-fact  engagement  with  Fordyce  Bailey,  and  it 
rather  bewildered  her  at  first.  There  didn’t  seem  to 
be  so  much  romance  when  sbe  found  everybody  was 
willing.  Aunt  Esther  liked  it;  her  father  said,  “Just 
as  you  please ; ” and  Robert  only  stood  off*  and  whis- 
tled. He  had  begged  her  to  wait  a year  before  she 
made  any  more  promises  to  anybody ; but  she  didn’t 
mind  him,  and  then  he  washed  his  hands  of  her. 

She  keeps  asking  me,  “ Don’t  I seem  happy  ? ” Well, 
yes,  she  does.  Only  no  one  has  congratulated  her  on 
her  new  engagement,  and  she  says  she  “ suspects  For- 
dyce isn’t  a great  favorite  in  Quinn ebasset.”  I could 
have  told  her  that  before. 

“But  what  do  you  care?”  said  I.  “You  are  satis- 
fied with  him,  and  that’s  enough.” 

He  is  editing  a paper  called  the  “ Cynosura  Star,” 
and  Judith  fills  one  corner  every  week  with  a poem. 
The  rest  of  the  time  she  is  writing  letters  to  her  dear 
Fo|;dyce.  Say  what  you  will.  Miss  Tottenham,  it 
must  be  delightful  to  be  in  love ! 


A ^UEER  LITTLE  STORT, 


305 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

A QUEER  LITTLE  STORY. 

WOULDN’T  be  a doctor’s  wife  for  anything  in 
this  world,”  cried  Marian,  her  swift-flying  broom 
sending  the  cat  skulking  under  the  table. 

“ Why  not  ? ” said  Judith,  sitting  down  in  the.  middle 
of  the  room  to  avoid  the  September  gale  from  the  open 
Avindow. 

« Why,  a medical  man  hasn’t  any  peace  of  his  life,  or 
his  wife  either.  I had  to  keep  breakfast  hot  tAVO  mor- 
tal hours  this  morning,  — please  move  back  your  chair 
a little,  — and  what  time  my  father’ll  get  home  to  din- 
ner nobody  knows.  I wouldn’t  marry  a doctor  if  it 
was  to  save  the  world.” 

Marian  spoke  with  unnecessary  warmth,  being  se- 
cretly irritated  by  Judith’s  plastic  manner  of  letting 
her  skirts  drag  in  the  dirt. 

“You  wouldn’t,  indeed?”  said  Judith,  with  a sly 
smile.  “I  should  think  you  were  the  last  person  to 
speak  against  the  faculty.  You’ve  always  been  brought 
up  with  doctors,  and  you’ll  marry  one  yet.  I’m  as  sure 
of  it  as  I am  that  I sit  in  this  chair.” 

Marian  tAvitched  back  her  sAveeping  cap,  which  had 
settled  on  the  bridge  of  her  nose,  and  took  up  the  dust 
pan  in  high  disdain. 

20 


306 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘I  know  too  much  for  that,”  said  she;  “a  burnt 
child  dreads  the  fire.” 

Judith  laughed  — a low,  lady-like  laugh,  with  an  un- 
dertone of  meaning  in  it. 

“ I’ll  tell  that  to  Robert,”  said  she. 

Quick  as  thought,  the  bright  color  surged  to  Mar- 
ian’s face,  over  went  the  dust  pan,  and  down  she  sank 
to  the  floor. 

J udith  Willard,  how  could  you  ? ” 

It  Avas  the  first  time  the  idea  had  ever  entered  her 
head  of  Robert  as  a possible  lover. 

Judith  laughed  again. 

“How  could  you  speak  so?”  said  Marian,  in  a 
grieved  tone.  “ I think  it’s  really  indelicate.” 

“Why,  child,  what  did  I say?” 

True  enough.  What  had  she  said?  The  words 
were  nothing.  How  stupid  to  take  them  up  as  if  they 
had  some  hidden  meaning!  The  pink  color  in, Mar- 
ian’s face  deepened  to  crimson.  It  was  really  very 
awkAvard,  and  she  was  23ut  to  her  woman’s  wits  to 
know  Avhat  to  say  next.  Determined  to  steer  clear  of 
the  medical  profession  this  time,  she  dashed  headlong 
into  another  subject. 

“O,  Jude,  did  you  know  Thankful  had  given  me  that 
recipe  for  making  ginger  tea  ? ” 

“Ah!” 

“Yes,  that  famous  ginger  tea!  Don’t  you  know 
how  private  she  used  to  be  about  it?  You  take  two 
eggs—” 

“Do  I?  Well,  you’re  quick  at  changing  the  conver- 
sation!” said  Judith,  with  an  amused  smite.  “I  don’t 
see,  though,  and  never  did,  why  you  should  be  so 


A ^UEER  LITTLE  STORY, 


307 


afraid  of  me,  Marian.  I’ve  always  talked  to  you 
freely  about  my  own  affairs ; but  you’re  just  as  close- 
mouthed ! I never  dared  hint  a word  about  Robert  be- 
fore, and  the  moment  I do  it,  you’re  on  your  dignity.” 

Marian  looked  up  in  utter  astonishment. 

“ O,  now,  dear,  you  needn’t  pretend  to  such  ig- 
norance ! You  know  all  about  it  just  as  well  as  I do.” 

“ All  about  what  ? ” 

« Why,  that  Robert  worships  the  very  ground  you 
walk  on.” 

It  was  all  out  now  — the  words  Judith  ought  never 
to  have  spoken,  the  story  she  had  no  right  to  tell,  the 
secret  which  Robert  himself  had  never  whispered  to  a 
living  soul. 

Marian  turned  pale,  and  looked  frightened. 

‘‘  I don’t  believe  it.” 

“Why  not?” 

“ Because  Robert  would  know  better.” 

Marian  spoke  with  prompt  decision,  as  if  the  idea 
was  not  to  be  entertained  for  a moment,  and  her  tone 
piqued  Judith. 

“I^ow,  Marian,  that’s  a strange  way  to  talk!  If 
there’s  a living  human  being  you  think  is  perfection, 
next  to  your  father,  it’s  Robert  Willard,  and  you  can’t 
deny  it.” 

“Well,  what  of  that?  That  isn’t  saying  I’m  in  love 
with  him ; and  I’m  not,  any  more  than  those  tongs,  or 
those  bellows,  except  as  a friend,”  added  Marian,  grow- 
ing incoherent  in  her  eagerness  to  set  Judith  right. 

“ But  you  will,”  was  the  ungrammatical  reply. 

“Will  what?  — No,  I won’t;  I mean  I can’t;  and  I 
wish  you  wouldn’t  say  another  word  about  it.  I should 


308 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


hate  Robert  if  he  should  say  such  a thing  to  me ! He 
musn’t ! He  musn’t ! ” 

“He  won’t  then;  you ‘needn’t  be  afraid,”  said  Judith, 
in  a changed  tone.  “ I’ll  tell  him.” 

“Tell  him?  — Ho,  no,  no!  that  would  be  the  worst 
of  the  whole.  O,  Judith,  please  do  promise  you 
won’t.” 

But  Judith,  whose  family  pride  had  been  touched, 
only  gazed  straight  into  the  fire,  without  answering. 
She  was  generally  as  pliable  as  a ball  of  putty,  but 
when  she  did  set  her  face  like  a flint,  woe  betide  you ! 
Marian  had  twenty  minds.  She  wanted  to  kneel  and 
implore ; she  was  ready  to  fly  into  a rage ; but  on  the 
whole,  didn’t  know  but  it  was  best  to  turn  the  whole 
thing  into  a laugh. 

The  laugh  carried  the  day.  Before  she  had  time  to 
beseech  or  to  scold,  Benjie  rushed  in  with  a rueful 
face,  exclaiming, — 

“ Hillo,  you  Mamie,  I’ve  been  busted  out  of  my  last 
marble ! ” 

And  between  the  reproof  Marian  had  to  administer 
for  bad  language,  with  the  child’s  face  cuddled  in  her 
neck,  and  the  answer  she  had  to  give  Tom  the  next 
moment  about  the  new  flower-stand,  Judith  slipped  out 
of  the  house,  and  ran  home.  Marian  did  not  fear  that 
she  was  seriously  offended,  for  Judith’s  temper  was 
perfect;  but  she  did  almost  fear  that  the  thoughtless 
girl  might  talk  with  Robert  as  she  had  threatened. 

“ She  can’t  do  it,  though,  till  he  comes  home  from 
Philadelphia ; and  before  that  time  I’ll  make  her  prom- 
ise to  keep  still.” 

But  Judith  carefully  avoided  the  subject,  and  Marian 


A ^UEER  LITTLE  STORT. 


309 


had  not  the  courage  to  allude  to  it  again.  She  hardly 
ever  spoke  Robert’s  name ; but,  strange  to  say,  that 
conversation  with  Judith  kept  fresh  all  the  fall.  She 
could  repeat  every  word  of  it,  and  the  more  she  tried 
to  drive  it  out  of  her  head,  the  more  it  came  back 
again,  and  staid.  It  had  not  taken  five  seconds  for 
Judith  to  tell  that  little  story;  but  it  took  days  and 
weeks  for  Marian  to  say  it  over  and  over  again  to  her- 
self— “He  worships  the  very  ground  you  walk  on.” 
I don’t  believe  it ! It  sn’t  at  all  likely. 

And  then  she  reviewed  his  words  and  looks,  as  many 
of  them  as  she  could  possibly  remember,  — even  the 
very  tones  of  his  voice,  — in  order  to  satisfy  herself 
whether  it  really  loas  “ at  all  likely  ” or  not.  Not  that 
it  was  of  any  particular  consequence,  either ; only  she 
wanted  to  know.  Sometimes  she  thought  Judith  must 
be  right ; then  again  it  seemed  “ perfectly  absurd ; ” so 
she  felt  obliged  to  go  over  the  same  ground  day  after 
day,  beginning  with,  “ How  I wish  I knew ! ” and  leav- 
ing ofi*  at  the  place  of  beginning.  The  subject  was 
rather  fascinating,  and  grew  more  and  more  so. 

How  strange  it  would  be  if  Robert  had  really  cared 
for  her  all  this  time,  and  she  had  not  known  it ! But 
then  she  was  so  blind ! Girls  were  often  blind.  There 
was  Judith,  one  of  the  wise  ones  in  such  matters,  if 
anybody  ever  was;  and  even  she  didn’t  dream  Silas 
Ilackett  loved  her  till  he  told  her  so.  Perhaps  girls 
were  usually  kept  in  the  dark  on  purpose.  What  did 
Robert  say  about  that  very  thing?  Marian  recalled 
the  exact  words, — 

“Girls  are  coquettes  naturally.  It  doesn’t  answer 


310 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


to  let  them  know  their  power : it  makes  little  tyrants 
of  them,  Marian.” 

Perhaps  that  was  the  very  reason  why  Robert  had 
let  concealment  prey  upon  his  damask  cheek  so  long. 
He  was  afraid  Marian  might  take  a dislike  to  him,  as 
Judith  had  done  to  Silas. 

‘‘And  I suppose  I should.  O,  no  doubt  of  it ; only,” 
added  she,  hesitating,  “I  am  so  very  different  from 
Judith!  I never  quite  understood  why  Silas  annoyed 
her  so.” 

“ Because,”  mused  Marian,  as  she  set  a patch  into 
Benjie’s  jacket,  “because,  if  anybody  does  truly  choose 
you  out  of  the  whole  world,  I should  think  your  heart 
would  answer  back.  That  is,  if  iPs  such  a person  as 
— O,  dear,  what  am  I thinking  about?  I’m  making  a 
button-hole  stitch  round  this  patch.” 

Marian  seized  her  scissors,  and  picked  away  with  a 
resolute  scowl,  as  if  the  button-hole  stitch  were  not  at 
the  root  of  the  mischief,  but  she  must  pick  out  a 
thought  that  went  deeper  still. 

Ah,  but  the  thought  wouldn’t  come ! 

Once  upon  a time,  an  unfortunate  lady,  named  Mrs. 
Bluebeard,  dropped  a fatal  gold  key  in  the  closet,  ^nd 
got  a stain  on  it,  which  all  the  scouring  in  the  world 
wouldn’t  rub  off.  There  are  other  things  which  take 
just  as  indelible  stains  as  gold  keys.  Judith,  with 
those  few  careless  words,  had  made  an  impression  on 
her  friend’s  mind  which  she  could  not  now  efface  if  she 
tried. 

“ O,  Marian,”  said  she,  one  morning,  in  a matter-of- 
course  way,  as  if  she  were  talking  of  basque  patterns, 
“ I wrote  Robert  yesterday  what  you  said  about  hating 


A ^UEER  LITTLE  STORT,  311 

him  if  he  should  come  any  nearer ; so  you  needn’t  be 
at  all  afraid : he  is  very  quick  to  take  a hint.” 

“ Why,  Judith  Willard,  you  can’t  be  in  earnest.  You 
didn’t  tell  him  that  ? ” 

“ To  be  sure  I did*;  and  it’s  nothing  to  look  so  wild 
about,  child.  It’s  only  between  Robert  and  me.  You 
may  be  sure  ’twon’t  go  any  farther.” 

“O,  Judith,  Judith,  I don’t  thank  you;  and  I 
think,  as  I said  before,  you’re  positively  indelicate,” 
cried  poor  Marian,  burying  her  blazing  face  in  her 
hands. 

“Why,’  Marian,  do  you  suppose  I’d  let  my  darling 
brother  go  and  make  a fool  of  himself?  ” 

“You  needn’t  be  afraid  of  that,  Judith  Willard. 
He’s  plenty  big  enough  and  old  enough  to  take  care 
of  his  own  affairs.  And  to  think  of  your  interfering, 
and  mortifying  me  to  death ! ” 

“ I never  thought  of  your  taking  it  so  to  heart,”  said 
gentle  Judith,  a little  disconcerted.  “I’ll  write  again 
to-morrow,  and  say  it  was  all  a mistake.” 

“ If  you  do,”  cried  Marian,  springing  up,  and  seizing 
Judith’s  hands,  “^y‘you  do  — ” 

“Well,  there’s  no  such  thing  as  suiting  you,”  re- 
turned Judith,  with  mild  resignation.  “If  I were  in 
your  place,  Marian,  I wouldn’t  think  any  more  about 
it : it  will  soon  blow  over.” 

“Wouldn’t  think  any  more  about  it!”  Very  good, 
very  easily  said  ; only,  like  the  most  of  Judith’s  advice, 
it  wasn’t  practical,  and  couldn’t  be  followed.  Marian 
thought  more  than  ever.  How  could  she  help  it? 
Thought  till  her  young  heart  was  sick  with  shame. 
Robert  — henceforth  Dr.  Willard  — returned  from 


312 


THE  DOCTOR’S  DAUGHTER, 


Philadelphia  in  November,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  was  afraid  of  him,  and  ran  and  hid  every 
time  she  heard  a footstep  in  the  hall.  She  might  have 
spared  herself  the  pains,  for  Robert  did  not  call.  He 
was  very  much  taken  up  with  two  or  three  old  women, 
who  had  put  themselves  in  his  hands,  and  expected 
him  to  make  them  over  as  good  as  new. 

‘‘Seems  to  me  Robert  isn’t  very ' social,”  said  Dr. 
Prescott,  one  night  at  the  tea-table.  “ I have  only  seen 
him  once,  and  that  was  on  the  street.” 

“ Pd  like  som.e  of  the  quince,  if  you  please,  papa.” 
“What!  Not  in  your  tea-cup,  daughter!” 

The  tea-cup  was  withdrawn  so  suddenly  that  Benjie 
laughed,  and  swallowed  a crumb  the  wrong  way.  Mar- 
ian thought  it  the  strangest  thing  that  she  should  have 
been  so  absent-minded,  when  she  was  taking  special 
pains  to  appear  unconcerned.  That  miserable  self- 
consciousness  which  came  over  her  every  time  Rob- 
ert’s name  was  mentioned,  what  would  it  drive  her 
into  next? 

“ Father,”  said  she,  speaking  very  fast,  “ Mr.  Bailey’s 
new  paper  — the  Cynosura  Star  — has  stopped.” 

“ Ah,  I thought  it  was  nothing  more  than  a shooting 
star.  I am  not  surprised.” 

“But  it  troubles  Judith.” 

“ Judith  is  always  in  trouble,  and  always  will  be  till 
she  goes  out  of  herself,  and  throws  her  energies  into 
a proper  channel.” 

“ But  you  don’t  want  her  husband  to  fail  in 
business  ? ” 

“ What  husband  ?"*  That  Bailey  ? He  isn’t  her 


A ^UEER  LITTLE  STORY, 


313 


husband  yet,  and,  never  will  be.  It’s  too  bad  to  be 
thought  of.” 

‘‘Papa,  you’re  always  so  hard  on  Fordyce.” 

“Am  I?  I suppose  I can’t  forget  that  he  once  re- 
fused to  marry  my  daughter,”  said  the  doctor,  glancing 
at  the  fair  face  opposite,  with  a merry  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  and  behind  the  twinkle  a very  sincere  look  of  ad- 
miration. If  there  was  a brighter,  bonnier,  more  win- 
some lassie  alive  than  “ my  daughter  Marian,”  he  hadn’t 
found  it  out. 

“O,  lie,  father;  he  didn’t  mean  to  steal  my  heart. 
It  was  only  an  accident,  and  you  ought  to  forgive 
him,”  said  Marian,  with  a light  laugh,  which  showed 
she  was  no  longer  sensitive  on  that  point. 

. “ So  I ought,  for  he  restored  it  to  you  like  a gentle- 
man.” 

A sudden  cloud  passed  over  Marian’s  face.  She  was 
thinking,  — 

“My  father  little  knows,  when  he  jokes  about  that, 
that  I have  done  almost  the  same  thing  myself. 
Haven’t  I restored  Robert  Willard’s  heart  to  him— - 
like  a lady  ? And  didn’t  wait  till  he  offered  it,  either ! 
Post-haste  — no  time  wasted!  I can  seem  to  see  that 
boy  laugh  in  his  sleeve.  He  must  think  I’m  no  oblig- 
ing ! Saved  him  all  the  trouble  of  speaking ! ” 

“But  I’ll  tell  you  the  one  I’m  afraid  I can’t  forgive,” 
went  on  her  hither,  in  a playful  mood  ; “ and  that  is 
the  man  who  really  comes  and  steals  that  little  heart, 
and  isn’t  honest  enough  to  bring  it  back  again.  That 
will  cost  me  dear,  you  see.  I’m  glad  he  keeps  away 
so  long.” 


314 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


The  doctor  was  only  indulging  in  a little  paternal 
gallantry.  His  words  had  no  special  meaning;  why 
should  Marian  look  so  confused  ? 

“ I am  glad  he  keeps  away  so  long  ” had  no  allu- 
sion to  Robert,  as  she  very  well  knew  when  she  came 
to  think  a moment. 


^UEER  LITTLE  STORT  CONTINUED.  315 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


QUEER  LITTLE  STORY  CONTINUED. 

DHY,  Robert,  is  that  you  ? ” exclaimed  Mar- 
ian, entering  the  library  with  the  feather 
duster  in  her  hand.  She  must  have  been 
very  much  surprised  to  find  him  there,  for  as  he  came 
in  at  one' door,  she  had  run  out  at  the  other. 

“ How  do  you  do  ? ” said  the  new  doctor,  turning 
over  a “ book  of  bones,”  and  forgetting  to  shake  hands. 

It  was  well  he  did  not  look  up  at  once.  He  might 
have  thought  Marian  was  sick ; but  by  the  time  he  had 
come  to  the  end  of  that  very  interesting  jiaragraph,  the 
bright  color  had  crept  back  again  to  her  cheeks. 

‘‘  What  do  you  hear  from  Keller  ? ” said  he,  taking 
down  another  book. 

^‘Ah!”  thought  Marian,  with  a little  shiver,  “he 
doesn’t  care  whether  I’m  alive  or  dead.  I was  anxious 
to  find  out,  and  now  I know.” 

“Keller?  O,  he  entered  college  before  you  went 
away  — didn’t  he  ? some  time  in  September.  He  hard- 
ly limps  at  all ; just  lame  enough,  he  writes,  to  escape 
hazing.” 

“There,  that  was  a long  sentence,”  thought  she, 
throwing  her  head  back  with  a feeling  of  relief,  “ and 
nothing  out  of  the  way  in  it,  I’m  sure.” 


316 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


“Glad  to  hear  it,”  said  Dr.  Willard,  putting  back 
two  books,  and  taking  down  another,  while  he  thought 
in  his  turn,  — 

“ How  handsome  Marian  grows ! But  proud  as  Lu- 
cifer. She  needn’t  toss  her  head  in  that  style.  Wants 
me  to  understand  that  she  doesn’t  care  any  more  for 
me  than  she  does  for  Hhose  tongs.’  Tongs  was  the 
word.  Well,  she  may  not  find  me  as  troublesome  as 
she  expects.” 

There  was  a little  pause,  during  which  Robert  read 
a table  of  Latin  weights  and  measures  backward,  and 
Marian  dusted  everything  faithfully,  from  the  diction- 
ary to  the  door-knob. 

“I  wish  Judith  Willard  had  attended  to  her  own  af- 
fairs,” groaned  she,  inwardly.  “What  shall  I do  todet 
Robert  know  I don’t  believe  her  story?  He  never 
cared  the  least  thing  about  me,  and  now  he’ll  go  to 
hating  me.  Don’t  I know  how  I felt  towards  Fordyce 
Bailey  ? I declare  it’s  a crying  shame.  But  I can’t  say 
a word ; it  would  be  very  improper,  and  of  course  he 
despises  me  too  much  to  allude  to  the  subject.” 

“ Cool  weather,”  said  Robert,  putting  back  the  last 
book,  and  moving  towards  the  door. 

“ V ery,”  returned  Marian,  looking  up  with  a*  glance 
that  held  him  to  the  spot  half  a minute ; it  seemed  to 
say  so  plainly,  “ Why  do  you  go  ? ” 

“ But  I won’t  be  a dunce,”  thought  he,  giving  him- 
self a mental  shaking.  “ Good  morning,  Marian.” 

“O,  Judith,  Judith,”  thought  Marian,  rushing  up  to 
her  chamber,  and  shutting  herself  in.  “ What  have 
you  done?  You  think  no  one  has  any  troubles  but 


^UEER  LITTLE  STORY  CONTINUED,  317 

yourself ; but  I say  it’s  a hard  case  to  lose  such  a good 
friend  as  Robert,  just  for  a piece  of  foolishness.” 

Meanwhile,  Judith,  absorbed  in  her  own  aifairs, 
which  did  not  run  very  smoothly,  saw  nothing  of  what 
was  going  on.  She  had  saved  Robert  from  making  a 
fool  of  himself,  and  having  done  her  duty,  thought  no 
more  about  it.  She  did  not  know  what  made  him  so 
quiet,  — scarcely  speaking  unless  asked  a question,  — 
and  at  the  same  time  so  restless,  running  from  one 
thing  to  another,  but  presumed  it  was  his  worry  about 
business.  Dr.  Prescott  had  made  him  a very  tempting 
offer,  and  was  really  anxious  to  take  him  into  partner- 
ship. There  could  hardly  be  a better  opening  for  a 
young  man,  for  Dr.  Prescott  ranked,  to  say  the  least, 
as  the  first  physician  in  the  county. 

Still  Robert  held  back.  He  wanted  to  thick  it  over 
a while.  Dr.  Ephraim  Ware,  brother  of  the  man  who 
had  been  Mrs.  Prescott’s  fellow-sufferer  in  Cuba,  was 
about  to  retire  from  an  excellent  practice  in  the  western 
part  of  the  state,  and  proposed  Dr.  Willard’s  taking  his 
place. 

‘‘  It  isn’t  best  to  settle  for  life  in  a hurry,”  said  the 
young  Esculaj)ius,  trying  his  best  to  Aveigh  both  these 
propositions  carefully,  and  without  the  least  reference 
to  Marian. 

“ What  would  she  care  ? It’s  lucky  for  me  I found 
out  her  state  of  mind  so  early  in  the  day,  though  I can’t 
say  I thank  Judith  for  interfering.  Marian  probably 
considers  me  a moon-struck  swain.  I saw  her  li23  curl 
when  she  spoke  to  me.  Well,  if  I do  decide  to  go  into 
practice  with  her  father,  I guess  I can  contrive  to  keep 
out  of  her  way ! Thank  goodness,  there’s  a street  door 


318 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


to  the  office.  She  is  the  only  girl  in  the  world  for  me, 
and  I always  did  have  a hope  that  some  time  — And 
who  knows  but  now,  if  Judith  hadn’t  — But  no ! when 
it  comes  to  comparing  me  to  a pair  of  tongs,  that  settles 
the  matter ! ” 

So  said  Robert,  and  thought  hope  was  dead,  when  it 
was  only  buried  alive  — buried  under  resolutions  and 
impediments  mountain  high ; but  somehow  there  was 
always  a loophole  for  air  to  steal  in,  and  the  faint  little 
hope  breathed  the  breath  of  life  still. 

When  Marian  heard  through  Judith,  as  they  were 
walking  home  from  church  together,  that  Robert  had 
at  last  decided  to  accept  her  father’s  offer,  she  merely 
said,  — 

‘‘  Has  he  ? ” 

Marian,  isn’t  it  so  nice  we  can  keep  him  at 
. home  ? ” 

‘‘  See  her,”  thought  Marian,  ‘‘  walking  this  street  per- 
fectly serene,  like  an  elephant  that’s  trod  upon  a worm, 
and  never  noticed  it ! If  she  did  but  know,  it’s  any- 
thing but  nice  for  this  keeping  Robert  at  home !” 

Certainly.  Very  trying,  very  mortifying;  but  in 
spite  of  that,  and  underneath  it  all,  exquisitely  delight- 
ful too!  Why  so?  Marian  did  not  stop  to  inquire. 
She  knew  she  could  not  help  being  rather  glad,”  but 
supposed  it  was  because  Robert  was  rid  of  those 
W ares.  She  never  liked  the  family,  and  she  had  been 
so  afraid  he  would  get  mixed  up  with  Dr.  Ephraim. 
How  it  had  troubled  her!  You  see  she  always  did 
want  Robert  to  do  well ; she  was  proud  of  him ; and 
then  the  time  had  been  when  they  were  such  good 
friends.  He  and  her  father  suited  each  other,  and 


^UEER  LITTLE  STORT  CONTINUED,  319 


ought  to  be  together;  it  was  a fine  thing  for  them 
both. 

“ I shan’t  take  any  peace  of  my  life,  having  a person 
in  the  house  I can’t  look  in  the  face ; still,  my  father 
has  too  hard  a time,  and  for  his  sake  I’m  glad.” 

Thus  Marian’s  feelings  were  very  much  like  the 
waters  of  the  lake  in  the  Land  of  Roses  — half  bitter, 
half  sweet. 

The  sign  over  the  office  door  was  taken  down,  and  a 
new  one  put  up  with  Robert’s  name  added.  But  Marian 
had  more  peace  of  her  life  than  she  had  expected,  which 
shows  it  is  never  best  to  borrow  trouble.  Robert,  hav- 
ing resolved  to  convince  her  — and  himself,  too  — that 
he  was  a moon-struck  swain,  devoted  his  whole 
soul  to  his  profession,  and  many  a day  passed  that  she 
did  not  see  him  at  all.  She  began  to  wish  he  would 
bring  the  evening  mail,  for  then  she  should  be  sure  of 
a peep  at  his  face  once  a day.  It  was  so  odd  not  to 
have  him  running  in,  and  she  was  always  thinking  of 
little  things  she  wanted  to.  say;  but  of  course  he 
wouldn’t  bring  the  mail,  since  that  fuss  with  Fordyce’s 
letter,  unless  specially  requested.  And  who  was  going 
to  request  him?  Not  Marian!  If  he  chose  to  keep 
himself  at  arm’s  length,  let  him  do  it ; she  had  no  idea 
of  coaxing  and  wheedling  anybody  that  disliked  her  so. 

The  winter  was  not  half  as  pleasant  as  usual.  Both 
these  proud  souls  were  smoothly  polite ; but  every  ice- 
cold  “ How  do  you  do  ? ” was  spoken  farther  and  far- 
ther off,  till  there  was  every  prospect  that  they  would 
soon  be  bowing  to  each  other  from  the  north  and  south 
poles. 

“Robert  relieves  me  even  more  than  I expected,”  Dr. 


320 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER, 


Prescott  often  remarked,  as  he  leaned  back  to  enjoy 
his  newspaper ; he  was  seldom  called  out  now  in  the 
evening.  I did  hope  my  oldest  son  would  be  the  one 
to  take  my  place,  but  next  to  him  I should  certainly 
choose  Robert.” 

“Keller  taught  a capital  school  last  winter,”  said 
Marian,  who  always  found  something  else  to  talk  about 
when  Robert’s  name  was  mentioned. 

“ Yes,  and  if  he  proves  as  good  at  law  as  he  is  at 
teaching,  I’ve  no  fault  to  find.  I consider  myself  rarely 
blessed  in  all  my  children.  To  be  sure  my  oldest 
daughter  did  run  away  from  home,  but  my  second  one. 
has  been  faithful  thus  far,  and  expects  to  spend  her 
days  with  me.” 

“Yes,  indeed,  you  may  be  sure  of  that,*  papa.” 

“ There,  that  will  do.  I don’t  ask  for  any  promises. 
Poor  little  girl ! I was  afraid  the  care  might  be  too 
heavy  for  your  tender  shoulders;  but,  bless  us,  you 
have  such  a buoyant  way  with  you,  child ! Why,  you 
soar  above  your  petty  trials,  uj),  up,  and  singing  like  the 
skylark.  Do  you  know  it  ? ” 

“ I know  you  say  so,  father.” 

But  as  Marian  drew  the  darning  needle  through 
Benjie’s  gray  sock,  she  said  to  herself,  — 

“ I sometimes  think  people  are  a little  too  sure  about 
what  goes  on  in  other  people’s  minds.  He  doesn’t 
know  I was  out  of  patience  with  life  not  two  hours  ago, 
and  asking,  ‘Is  this  all  there  is  to  it?’” 

“ And,  my  daughter,  I count  you  very  fortunate,  after 
all,  to  have  had  your  time  so  filled  with  ministering  to 
others.  Look  at  Judith ! What  has  she  had  to  think 
of  but  herself?  Idleness  isn’t  so  bad  for  common- 


^UEER  LITTLE  STORY  CONTINUED.  321 


place  people,  but  those  of  the  poetical  temperament,  like 
you  and  her,  need  employment  — must  have  it.” 

“Have  I the  poetical  temperament,  father?  I can’t 
rhyme  decently.” 

“You  know  what  I mean.  You  are  both  of  you 
sensitive  and  imaginative,  prone  to  expect  too  much  in 
life.  Let  such  ]3eople  float  along  with  no  aim  or  ob- 
ject, and  no  particular  call  on  their  energies,  and  — espe- 
cially if  they  haven’t  sound  health  to  begin  with  — 
they  grow  morbid,  exaggerate  their  trials,  and  ‘ the  deep 
poetic  heart’  becomes  a lump  of  anguish  in  their  breasts. 
What’s  the  matter  with  Judith  now?  Remorse  about 
Silas,  I hope ! * Better  late  than  never.” 

“ Not  that  exactly,  papa.” 

“I  see  you  hesitate,  dear.  I had  no  right  to  ask 
you.” 

“ O,  yes,  sir,  you  had ; and  it  will  do  no  harm  to  tell 
you.  She  has  not  heard  from  Mr.  Bailey  since  last 
October,  nearly  six  months  ago.  Isn’t  that  enough  to 
make  anybody  look  sober  ? ” 

“Depends  upon  circumstances.  It  wouldn’t  distort 
my  countenance  — not  in  the  least ! ” 

At  that  moment  there  was  a quick  peal  of  the  office- 
bell,  so  abrupt  and  decisive  that  it  brought  Marian  and 
her  father  both  to  their  feet. 

“The  young  doctor,”  gasped  a little  boy,  who  had 
evidently  run  himself  out  of  breath  — “ the  young  doc- 
tor— just  alive  — quick  as  you  can  go.” 

“ What  has  happened  to  him  ? Where  is  he  ? ” 
“Don’t  know  — down  to  my  house.  They  didn’t 
say  — fell  off  his  horse.  Broke  his  neck,  I guess.” 

At  these  terrible  words,  Marian  sank  deathly  white 
21 


322 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER, 


upon  the  sofa.  Dr.  Prescott,  without  looking  at  her, 
or  asking  another  question,  seized  his  hat,  and  ran. 
Marian,  who  had  not  uttered  one  word,  caught  the  mes- 
senger, Hen  Page,  by  the  arms,  and  pulled  him  down  to 
her.  The  little  fellow,  frightened  at  sight  of  her 
white  lips  moving,  while  no  words  came,  screamed  out 
to  reassure  her,  — 

“ He’s  alive  yet.  They  told  me  to  say  he’s  alive.” 

‘‘  Who’s  alive  ? ” asked  a manly  voice,  ringing  clear 
and  loud  in  the  hall ; and  behold  Robert  himself,  safe 
and  sound,  walking  into  the  office  ! At  the  same  mo- 
ment, to  his  intense  surprise,  the  cool-mannered  Mar- 
ian sprang  up  with  a glad  cry,  and  threw  both  arms 
round  his  neck. 

^‘You  see  she  thought  you’s  dead,”  exclaimed  the 
wonder-eyed  little  boy.  “ I told  her  you  wasn’t,  — not 
quite,  — and  she’s  been  gripping  hold  of  me  ever  since, 
and  trying  to  holler.” 

« Why,  Marian,  I was  just  v^alking  along  from  the 
post-office.  What  does  this  mean  ? Bless  your  little 
heart,  Marian,  don’t  tremble  so.” 

Her  arms  had  been  suddenly  withdrawn  from  his 
neck,  and  she  was  laughing  and  crying  at  once. 

“ Thought  I was  dead  — did  she  ? And  she  cared  as 
much  as  this  ? ” 

Robert  looked  as  if  he  was  quite  willing  to  be  vic- 
tim of  a false  report,  under  such  circumstances. 

‘•What  did  I say?  What  was  I saying?”  sobbed 
the  poor  mortified  girl,  speaking  at  last,  and  wrenching 
her  hands  from  Robert’s  grasp.  “You  naughty  XiVCiQ 
Hen  Page ! Aren’t  you  ashamed  of  yourself?  ” 

“D’you  s’pose  I went  and  did  it  a purpose?”  re- 


^UEER  LITTLE  STORY  CONTINUED,  323 

turned  Hen,  standing  on  his  dignity.  “ They  sent  me 
liggitty  split.” 

“Do  you  wonder  it  frightened  me,  Robert?  He 
said  you’d  fallen  off  your  horse,  and  broken  your 
neck,  and  my  father  ran  for  dear  life.  Do  you  wonder 
it  frightened  me,  Robert  ? ” 

“No,  not  at  all;  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world,”  replied  the  young  doctor,  meekly;  and  his 
spirits  sank  as  he  spoke.  “But  do  lie  down,  dear; 
you’re  as  pale  as  a ghost.” 

Marian  curled  herself  into  a heap  of  mortified  pride 
on  the  sofa. 

“ I should  have  done  the  same,  and  felt  exactly  as 
bad,  Robert  Willard,  if  it  had  been  your  old  horse  that 
had  broken  his  neck,”  sobbed  she. 

That  was  a little  too  absurd.  Even  Hen  Page  tit- 
tered, and  a sly  twinkle  came  into  Robert’s  eyes.  A 
vase  stood  on  the  table,  which  she  had  filled  with  flow- 
ers that  morning.  He  seized  it,  and  scattered  its  con- 
tents right  and  left. 

“ Don’t  try  to  talk,”  said . he,  bending  over  her,  and 
sprinkling  her  face  with  a geranium  leaf.  He  did  not 
like  to  hear  her  tell  wrong  stories,  I suppose.  She 
closed  her  eyes  in  desperation,  conscious  that  all  she 
said  and  did  only  made  matters  worse. 

“ Look  here,  doctor,”  said  the  little  boy,  watching  the 
man  with  broken  bones,  kneeling  so  pliantly  before  his 
fair  patient,  “didn’t  you  get  hurt  anywhere?  What 
for  pity  sakes  d’they  mean  ? ” 

No  reply.  Dr.  Willard  was  fully  absorbed  in  wait- 
ing for  the  opening  of  a pair  of  wilful  blue-gray  eyes. 
He  had  not  had  a fair  sight  at  them  for  half  a year  at 


324 


THE  DOCTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 


least,  and  now  they  were  completely  cornered,  and  the 
little  story  they  had  been  hiding  he  was  determined  to 
get  at,  let  it  read  as  it  might. 

The  situation  was  growing  embarrassing.  Marian 
could  not  pretend  any  longer  to  feel  faint,  for  her  face 
was  rosy  red,  but  open  her  eyes  she  would  not.  She 
must  have  known  from  the  little  remarks  Robert  made 
in  a low  tone,  that  he  was  not  at  all  offended ; indeed, 
quite  the  reverse ; and  there  was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of, 
nothing  in  the  world  but  those  keen  brown  orbs,  — the 
very  “remarkable”  ones, — which  she  felt  were  looking 
straight  down  into  her  soul. 

That  little  boy  ought  to  have  gone  away  then.  It 
was  clear  even  to  his  ten-years-old  vision  that  “ Benjie’s 
sister  and  the  young  doctor  liked  each  other  first  rate,” 
as  he  afterwards  reported ; but  being  of  an  inquiring 
mind,  he  still  lingered. 

A happy  thought  came  to  Robert. 

“ Ah,  ha.  Hen,  what  day  of  the  month  is  it  ? ” 

“ An  April  fool,  by  George ! ” burst  forth  the  little  fel- 
low; and  he  tore  out  of  the  office,  swinging  his  cap. 
He  had  been  making  wee  jokes  all  day,  but  such  a stu- 
pendous one  as  this  was  quite  beyond  him. 

“ I’ll  bet  I know  who  started  it,”  said  he ; for  nobody 
but  his  big  brother,  “ Picked  Evil,”  would  ever  have 
presumed  to  trifle  so  with  Dr.  Prescott. 

A wicked,  impertinent  trick ; but  neither  Robert  nor 
Marian  felt  proper  indignation  towards  Picked  Evil. 
If  they  were  April  fools,  they  liked  their  folly,  and 
thought  it  better  than  the  wisdom  of  Solomon.  Robert 
was  within  an  inch  of  quoting  poetry,  which  showed  he 
was  certainly  light-headed. 


\.ii 


MISS  O'NEIL  WALKS  INTO  THE  ROOM.  Page  325. 


^UEER  LITTLE  STORT  CONTINUED.  325 


“ And  then  she  looked  down  on  me 
With  a look  that  placed  a crown  on  me.” 

For  Marian  had  opened  her  eyes  at  last,  and  fastened 
them  on  his  coat-collar.  But  at  this  interesting  junc- 
ture Miss  O’Neil  walked  into  the  room. 

“ Of  all  things ! ” exclaimed  she,  taking  in  the  situa- 
tion at  a glance.  “ The  wind  bloweth  and  it  listeth ; 
but  r must  say  I’m  surprised  this  time.  I never  al- 
lowed gentlemen  to  kneel  to  me,  Miriam  Linscott. 
Judge  Dillingham  did  it  once  at  a picnic,  and  I got  him 
up  as  quick  as  I could ; but  he  ground  an  awful  grass 
stain  into  the  knees  of  his  white  trousers.” 

Marian  was  sitting  bolt  upright  now,  and  Robert  be- 
side her,  laughing  heartily. 

‘‘  Hullo  here ! ” shouted  Benjie,  bustling  in  with  great 
pretended  excitement ; “ d’you  know  Mr.  Liscom’d  fal- 
len off  his  horse  and  broke  his  neck  ? ” 

“ That  joke  is  worn  pretty  thin,  my  boy,”  returned 
Robert. 

But  it  took  immediate  effect  on  Miss  O’Neil. 

“You  don’t  say  so  ! Poor  Phebe  Liscom ! Do  good 
in  thy  good  pleasure  unto  Zion ! How  strange  it  is 
that  of  all  Hiram’s  three  wives,  she  should  be  the  only 
one  left  to  see  him  buried ! ” 

Robert  laughed  in  the  most  heartless  manner,  think- 
ing what  a lonesome  funeral  it  would  be  with  only  one 
widow  for  mourner,  and  did  not  attempt  to  stop  Miss 
O’Neil,  who  hurried  to  the  scene  of  the  tragedy,  fol- 
lowed by  young  Benjie,  with  his  handkerchief  stuffed 
in  his  mouth. 

Five  minutes  later  Dr.  Prescott  returned,  fuming  with 
honest  indignation  against  Picked  Evil  and  all  his  clan. 


326 


THE  DOCTORS S DAUGHTER. 


Dr.  Willard  and  Marian  were  talking  too  fast  to  hear 
the  sound  of  his  footsteps.  And,  as  they  happened  to 
be  looking  straight  at  each  other,  they  very  naturally 
did  not  see  him  as  he  paused  on  the  threshold. 

‘‘Well,  well,”  thought  he,  turning  on  his  heel  with 
“a  slow,  wise  smile”  “I  don’t  appear  to  be  wanted 
here.” 

By  which  he  must  have  meant  that  his  daughter  was 
in  good  hands.  When  he  left  her  he  had  feared  a case 
of  hysterics ; but  his  partner  certainly  knew  enough  to 
manage  that ! It  was  from  no  doubt  of  the  young  doc- 
tor’s professional  skill  that  the  old  doctor  walked  out 
of  the  house  with  a face  almost  tearful.  No;  it  was 
the  new  look  in  Marian’s  eyes  which  had  touched  him 
so,  — the  soulful,  trusting  look,  like  her  dear  lost 
mother.  He  was  not  displeased  by  the  sudden  turn 
of  affairs,  and,  if  not  very  much  surprised  either,  that 
only  shows  his  native  shrewdness  of  mind. 

“ I could  not  have  asked  better  for  our  daughter,” 
said  he.  “ Helen  herself  would  be  satisfied.  I believe 
the  children  were  designed  for  each  other ; and  it  is  no 
light  fancy,  but  a love  that  will  outlast  time.” 

Still  the  lonely  man  could  not  help  feeling  saddened. 
Marian  was  all  he  had  left  to  make  sunshine  for  him, 
and  without  her  his  home  would  be  desolate.  He  had 
hoped  to  keep  her  with  him  several  years  longer,  for, 
according  to  his  theory,  no  woman  should  be  married 
under  twenty-five. 

“ To  a father  waxing  old, 

Nothing  is  dearer  than  a daughter,” 

thought  he.  “ But  she  shall  never  know  how  much  it 
costs  me  to  give  her  up.” 


THE  END. 


327 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

THE  END. 

Miss  Tottenham. 


September  3. 

^^^WENTY  to-day.  I wrote  you  fifteen  pages  full 
of  sentiment,  Miss  Tottenham,  a year  and  a 
half  ago,  or  thereabouts,  before  I had  settled 
down  to  my  new  happiness,  and  could  take  it  reasona- 
bly ; but,  though  everything  I said  was  only  the  truth, 
it  sounded  flimsy  that  I had  to  cut  it  out.  There 
are  some  things  too  precious  to  be  talked  about,  and  I 
do  wonder  how  people  can  parade  them  before  the 
world.  I can’t  speak  of  them  even  to  Judith. 

She  says  I needn’t  talk  of  her  being  fickle,  for  didn’t 
I declare  I wouldn’t  marry  a doctor,  and  then  go  and 
accept  the  first  medical  man  that  proposed?  “Worse 
than  that,”  said  I ; “ for  he  didn’t  propose ; he  only 
gave  me  a conundrum  about  a pair  of  tongs.  Sol- 
emnly, J udith,  I never  had  an  offer  in  my  life.” 

She  laughed,  but  I suspect  she  doubts  the  depth  of 
my  feeling  because  I won’t  talk  seriously.  Why,  Miss 
Tottenham,  it’s  too  sweet,  it’s  too  sacred,  to  bear  any 
discussion. 

W e are  to  be  married  next  Christmas.  O,  if  mother 
were  only  here  to  see  me  write  the  words!  And  I 


328 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER. 


think  she  is,  for  I feel  to-night  just  as  I used  to  when 
I sat  on  the  low  ottoman  with  my  head  in  her  lap.  I 
have  done  what  I know  she  would  like : I have  ar- 
ranged to  live  here  at  home  with  my  father  and  Benjie. 
I told  Robert  he  was  worth  marrying,  but  he  wasn’t 
worth  leaving  home  for,  and  I must  stay  and  take 
care  of  mother’s  legacy.”  I was  very  decided ; but  it 
didn’t  cost  me  much,  for  he  loves  my  father  dearly,  and 
thinks  just  as  I do  about  it. 

I assure  you.  Miss  Tottenham,  I shall  never  forget 
how  pleased  my  father  looked  when  we  told  him  our 
plan.  He  had  been  trying  so  hard  to  make  believe  he 
was  willing  to  give  me  up ; but  when  he  found  I 
wouldn’t  be  given  up,  he  put  both  arms  round  me  and 
blessed  me.  I turned  to  Robert,  and  told  him  that  just 
finished  my  joy  for  this  world! 

I must  not  forget  to  speak  of  Judith.  It  was  rather 
hard  for  her  when  Fordyce  married  that  rich  young 
widow  of  Lynn ; but  she  is  glad  of  it  now,  and  smiles 
at  her  past  foolishness,  which  she  says  would  never  have 
reached  such  a climax  if  she  had  had  work  enough  to 
do  to  keep  her  out  of  mischief.  She  seems  like  another 
person  since  aunt  Esther  went  away.  But  you  don’t 
know  about  that. 

Aunt  Esther’s  husband  returned  from  California; 
there  was  a reconciliation,  and  he  took  her  back  with 
him.  Then  Robert  thought  Tid  was  having  too  hard 
a time,  and  sent  her  to  boarding-school,  and  Judith  has 
* had  charge  of  the  family  ever  since;  for,  though 
Brooksey  Waters  does  the  hard  work,  she  needs  look- 
ing after,  and  to  be  told  when  to  put  on  the  potatoes. 


THE  END. 


329 


as  much  as  a small  child.  Judith  has  waked  up  won- 
derfully. She  said  to  me  the  other  day, — 

“ I slept,  and  dreamed  that  life  was  beauty ; 

I woke,  and  found  that  life  was  duty.” 

I am  so  glad  she  sees  things  differently!  She  writes 
poetry  still,  hut  only  when  she  has  a good  right  to  the 
time.  She  says  she  shall  never  be  married.  Of  course 
I pay  no  attention  to  that,  and  hope  it  won’t  come  true. 
Still,  there  wouldh^  a risk  in  it;  for  how  can  she  ever 
be  sure  it’s  the  right  man?  And,  as  dear  aunt  Filura 
says,  A sensible  woman  is  sure  to  be  happy  single  ; 
but  marriage  is  very  uncertain,  business.” 

Uncertain  ? Not  for  me.  It  may  be  for  those  who 
can’t  marry  Robert ! But  with  him  at  my  side,  and  my 
heavenly  Father  above  me,  how  can  I be  afraid  ? 

December  23.  It  will  be  a very  quiet  wedding.  Pau- 
line has  arranged  everything;  so  you  may  know  it’s 
just  right.  Only  I would  have  Miss  O’Neil  and  Thank- 
ful Works,  because  I pity  them  so.  Pauline  had  to 
lend  Thankful  her  gray  ladies’  cloth  dress  to  make  her 
respectable.  I guess  that  poor  creature  finds  there  are 
some  things  harder  than  getting  up  in  the  night  to 
hurrah  for  McClellan.  • 

I am  glad  Silas  Hackett  is  in  Chicago ; though  it  is 
quite  absurd  what  Keller  says  about  Judith. 

“ She  doesn’t  care  for  things  till  they  are  out  of  her 
reach.  You  know  ‘there  is  no  cream  like  that  which 
rises  on  spilled  milk.’  ” 

Naughty  boy!  He  is  to  be  Robert’s  groomsman,  and 
I wanted  Judith  for  bridesmaid ; but  it  is  to  be  Marie 
Smith ; if  you  can’t  guess  why,  no  matter. 

There  is  Benjie  thumping  at  the  door.  He  seems  to 


330 


THE  DOCTOR  DAUGHTER, 


think  I am  going  to  be  hung,  and  he  won’t  lose  sight 
of  me  if  he  can  help  it. 

And  now,  good  by.  Miss  Tottenham.  I salute  your 
cheek.  You  are  sure  to  keep  your  lips  shut;  for,  see, 
I put  you  in  a big  envelope,  and  paste  you  down  with 
mucilage.  Good  by,  discreet  old  friend,  good  by ! 


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